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A Halfaday Creek Story by JAMES B. HENDRYX 
A Tonto Kid Story by HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 




)eas 





25c 



The 



Devil's Bosun 




H. BEDFORD-JONES 



beg! 



ISSIK 



. i m 





HE left a trail of broken hearts from War- 
saw to Naples and from Constantinople 
to Paris, this swashbuckling, diplomatic, en- 
gaging soldier of fortune known to history 
as Casanova. Women high and women low, 
women brilliant and women dull, all found 
him fascinating . . . And not the least of his 
charms was his astonishing fastidiousness. 
Centuries before halitosis was a household 
word, he realized that unpleasant breath 
was a fault that could not be forgiven even 
in him. Consequently, before he awooing 
went, it was his habit to chew the leaves of 
certain fragrant herbs that would quickly 
render his breath sweet and agreeable. 
• • • 

If halitosis (bad breath) were an uncommon 
condition, few would be concerned about it. 
Unfortunately, however, it is an ever-present 
threat. Everyone is likely to have it at some 
time or other for this reason : even in normal 



mouths fermentation of tiny food particles 
constantly goes on. Unpleasant odors are 
released without the victim knowing it. 

Don't take a chance 

Since it is impossible to know when this con- 
dition is present, the wise course is to take 
sensible precautions against it. The quick, 
wholly delightful method is to use Listerine 
as a mouth rinse before any engagement at 
which you wish to appear your best. Be- 
cause it is antiseptic, Listerine instantly 
halts fermentation. Then it overcomes the 
odors fermentation causes. The breath — 
indeed the entire mouth— becomes cleaner, 
purer and sweeter. 

Keep a bottle of this delightful mouth 
wash handy at all times. It is your assurance 
that you will not offend others needlessly; 
that you will be welcome. Lambert Phar- 
macal Company, St. Louis, Mo. 



breatk bevond off, 



4sterme puts your breatn Deyoru 

QUICKLY CHECKS HALITOSIS 



ense 



Shoet Stoeibs. Issued semi-monthly by DOUBLEDAY, DOKAN & COMPANY, INC., 501 Franklin Aye., Garden City, N. Y„ and entered 
as second-class matter at the Post Office, Garden City, N. Y. YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION PRICE— In the United States, Mexico f ana 
American Possessions, {5.00 per year; to Canada, {5.50; and to all other foreign countries in the Postal Union, {6.60; price payable in 
advance, and Including postage. 



JK^S A TIP GOT BILL A GOOD JOB! 



MY RAISE DIDN'T COME THROUGH 
MARY- 1 MIGHT* AS WELL GIVE UP. 
It ALL LOOKS SO HOPELESS., 
\ 



TOM GREEN WENT \ 
INTO RADIO ANO HE'S * 
MAKING GOOD MONEY. 
TOO, I'LL SEE HIM 
RIGHT AWAY.f 




BILL, JUST MAILING THAT 
COUPON GAVE ME A QUICK 
t START TO SUCCESS IN RADIQtJ 
- .MAIL" THIS ONE TONIGHT/ 



TOM'S RIGHT "AN UNTRAINEO 
MAN HASN'T A CHANCE. I'M 
\GOIN0 TO TRAIN TOR 
feAMOTdOc IT'S 
TOOAVS FIELD 
tit, GOOD PAY 
OPPORTUNITIES 




TRAINING FOR RADIO IS EASY AND IM 
GETTING ALONG FAST.— V 

^411 .*•">» SIRVICINS SETs^ 



THERE'S NO END TO THE 
GOOD JOBS FOR THE 
TRAINED RADIO MAN 



Hft.l. TRAINING CERTAINLY PAYS. 

.Our money worries are 
OVER aVd we've a bright 
Future ahead in radio. 



oSTSiLlTffs WbMMtf UL ; 
YOU'VE GONE AHEAD 

so fast in radio. 





HERE'S PROOF 

that my training pays 





ILL TRAIN YOU AT HOME) 

In Yovr Spare Time For A 

GOOD RADIO JOB 



MAIL THE COUPON NOW. Get the facts about Radio— the 
field with a future. N. R. I. training fits you for jobs In con- 
nection with the manufacture, sale and operation of Radio equip- 
ment. It fits you to go in business for yourself, service sets, 
operate on board Bhips, in broadcasting, television, aviation, 
police Radio and many other opportunities. My FREE book 
tells Low I train you Quickly at borne in spare time to be a 
Radio Expert. 

Many Radio Experts Make $30, $50, $75 a Week 

Why struggle along in a dull job with low pay and no future? 
Start training now for the live-wire Radio field. I have helped 
many men make more money. Hundreds of successful men now 
in Radio got their start through N. R. I, training. 

Many Make $5, $ 1 0. $ 1 5 a Week Extra 
In Spare Time While Learning 




Hold your job. I'll not only train you in a few hours of your 
spare time a week, but the day you enroll I start sending you 
Extra Money Job Sheets which quickly show you how to do 
Radio repair jobs common in most every neighborhood. I give 
you Radio Equipment for conducting experiments and making 
tests that teach you to build and service practically every type 
Makes More MoncyThan of receiving set made. Otis Benton, 14105 Lorain Ave., Cleve- 
Ever Before land, Ohio, writes: "I picked up $1800 while studying. The 

.» "I am making more time I gave my Radio work did not interfere with my other 
Course I was Radio money now than I have business." 
lExpert for the largest ever made. My gross Find On* Wh»* Radio Offnrtt 

sporting goods store in income in cash one 

jNotth Carolina. Since month was over $500 My book has Bhown hundreds of fellows how to make more money 
enrolling I have made and I also did a credit and win success. It's FREE to any ambitious fellow over 15 
»bout $8,500. I want business which ran years of age. Investigate. Find out what Radio offers you. 

something over $200. Read what my graduates are doing and making, about my Money 
Any time I can speak a Back Agreement, and the many other N. R. I. features. Mail 
good word for N. R. I., the coupon in an envelope, or paste it on a 1c post card TODAY. 

I will be glad to do_It." 

J. E. SMITH, President, Dept. 5MM 
National Radio Institute, Washington, D, C. 



Gets Job "While 
Training 
"Before finishing your 



to thank N. R. 1/ 
J. F. Huff, 601 W. 
J8th St, Austin, Texas. 



J. E. SMITH. President 
National Radio Institute 

The man who has di- 
rected the Home-Study 
Training of more men 
for the Radio industry 
than any other man in 
America. 




N. R. I. Course Pays for 
Itself 

"At the end of my first 
year I more than tripled 
the cos t of in y Gours e. 
Other fellows need not be 
afraid to start the Course 
for fear they cannot pay 
for it, because it more 
than pays for itself. ' ' — 
F. E. Sanderson, Jr., 
Moyock, N. C. 





J. E. SMITH, President, Dept. 5 MM 
National Radio Institute, Washington, D. C. 

Dear Mr. Smith: Without obligating me, send your book which, points' out 
the spare time and full time job opportunities in Radio and your 60-50 method) 
of training men at home in spare lime to become Radio Experts. 

(Please print plainly) 
NAME AGE 



ADDRESS., 



C1TT STATE. 



Home-Study 

Business Training 

Your opportunity will never be bigger than your 
preparation. Prepare now and reap the rewards of 
early success. Free 64-Page Books Tell How. Write 
NOW for book you want, or mail coupon with your 
name, present position and address in margin today. 
Q Higher Accountancy □ Business Corres. 



DMod. Salesmanship 

□ Traffic Management 

□ Rail. Station Mgm't 

□ Law : Degree of IX. B. 

□ Commercial Law 

□ Industrial Mgm't 

□ Banking and Finance 

□ Business Mgm't 



□ Credit and Collection 
Correspondence 

□ Modern Foremanship 

□ Personnel Mgm't 

□ Expert Bookkeeping 

□ C. P. A. Coaching 

□ Business English 

□ Effective Speaking 



□ Paper Salesman's Training D Stenotypy 

LA SALLE EXTENSION UNIVERSITY 
Dept. 1175-fc Chicago 




SALARY 
TO START 

$ 90 to 
i 175 

MONTHLY 

MEN 

WOMEN 

la+o so 



Ry. Mail Clark 
P. O. Laborer 
R. F. D. Carrier 
Special Agent 
Customs Inspector 
City Mail Carrier 
P. O. Clerk 
Matron 

Special Investigator 
() Typist 



} POSTMASTER 
) Seamstress 

i Auditor 
Stenographer 
U.S. Border Patrol 
Telephone Opr; 
Watchman 
Meat Inspector 
) Secret Service Opr. 
< ) File Clerk 



INSTRUCTION BU REAU .Oapt 1 1 2 ,S t. Loult, Mfc 

Send me FREE particulars "How to Qualify for 
Government PoBltione" marked X . Salarlee, 
locations, opportunities, etc. ALL SENT FREE. 

Name 

Address • 



FACTORY TO YOU 

LATEST MODEL REMINGTON TYPEWRITERS 





BRAND NEW, latest 
model Remington Port- 
able for only 10 i a day! Amazingly low price direct from 
the factory. Every essential feature of large office type- 
writers — standard 4-row keyboard, standard width car- 
riage, margin release, back space, automatic ribbon re- 
verse. Act now, while this special opportunity holds good. 

You don't RISK a Penny 

We send you this genuine Model 6 for 10 days' free trial. 
If not satisfied, send it back. We pay all shipping charges. 

FREE Typing Course and Carrying Case 

You will receive FREE a complete simplified home 
course in Touch Typing. Also FREE, a handsome, 
sturdy carrying case. No obligation. Mail coupon for 
full details— NOW. 



Remington Rand Inc., Dept. 147-11. 

205 East 42nd Street, New York, N. Y. 

Tell me, without obligation, how I can get a New Remington 

Portable, plus Free Typing Course and Carrying Case, for 

10c a day. Send Catalogue. 

Name 

Addres3 

City State , 



THIS 



BICYCLE 



l i^ H s A P D ENDi l NG] GIVEN WITHOUT COST! 

BOYS! This speedy 1935 Deluxe Model 
Motorbike can be yours without cost. 
Comes fully equipped as shown. Speedy as 
an arrow; sturdy as an Indian ponyl Get 
it and your choice of 300 other prizes, in- 
cluding athletic equipment, a movie 
machine, your own clothing. Earn CASH, 
besides! Just deliver our 3 fine magazines 
to customers in your neighborhood. You 
can easily do it in spare time. Offers 
valuable training. Mail the coupon NOW 
— and we'll start you. 





Boys! Mail This Coupon At Once 

Mr. Jim Thayer, Dept. 550 

The Crowell Publishing Company, Springfield, Ohio 

Dear Jim: Start me winning MONEY and PRIZES. 



BESIDES; 



Name- 



Address- 




4 



of the opportunity for you to 

MAKE m MONEY 

Wouldn't H give you a thrill to make 
money like this? Money to spend — 
more where that came from — money to 
pay for the necessities and some left 
over for the luxuries? Bead this list. 
The people who reported these cash 
earnings have sworn before a legally 
authorized NOTABY PUBLIC that 
these are true and accurate reports — I 
could print SCOBES of other sworn 
statements of big earnings If I had 
the space. But these are enough to 
show you the possibilities, for these 
people reported these earnings from 
the very same opportunity I now offer 
you. 

Amount Earned 
In One Week 

r. J. Mother, Wyo $60.00 

Wilbur W. Whltcomb, Ohio.... 146.00 

H. D. White, Kan 47.50 

Geo. E. Bohn. Idaho 53.86 

Tom Noble, Mich 68.40 

Ft. E. Teague, Calif 52.00 

L. P. Boyne. La 67.20 

Clara C. Wellman. N. J 96.00 

Paul T. Krlder. Pi 81.00 

Geo. W. Wright, Maine 63.75 

Sam. A. Barker, Mich 51.00 

A. Pardlnl, Calif 69.09 

Norman Geisler, Mich 129.00 

Lester Gcorgina, R. 1 63.70 

Albert Becker, Mich 100.00 

Ft. J. Metcalfe, Idaho 51.87 

Gunson R. Wood, N. Y 65.00 

Max Barrett, Wash 62.00 

Lamar C. Cooper, Mich 90.00 

Helen V. Woolmington, Pa 45.00 

A. N. Abel, N. J 59.50 

Ruby Hannen, W. Va 73.00 

Adolph Plckney, N. Y 60.00 

Lambert Wilson, Mich 79.00 

Hani Coordes, Nebr 96.40 

S. C. Thomas, W. Va. 50.00 

W. J. Way, Kan 78.15 

Wouldn't you like to see your name 
on a list like this? Wouldn't you like 
to make up to $50. to $60, and even 
$100 In one short 
week? Then send 
your name at once. 
I'll send you 
all the lnfor- — ^/gu 
maUon Free. JOS 



YOUneaf 
MONEY 



Here's a wonderful chance to moire, 
llpP end get a Brand New 

FORD SEDAN besides. 



IF you are out of work or on part 
time and need cash at once to pay 
your bills and live on, you are just 
the person I am looking for. I have a 
good opportunity for you right now — 
a wonderful chance to start right in 
making up to $6.50 in a day and 
quickly increase your earnings as you 
become established. 

Make Money Fast 

You don't have to go around penni- 
less in a land of plenty. My system 
shows you how to make money FASTI 
Look at those earnings 
in the column at the 
left. These are excep- 
tional earnings for any 
kind of times, but they 
are especially good right 
now. 



I Send Everything 

Experience or previous training un- 
necessary. I send everything you 
need. You don't risk a penny of your 
money. I'll give you a brand new 
Ford Tudor Sedan as a bonus if you 
show me you are a producer. You 
handle the money and deliver the 
goods. You keep a big share of every 
dollar you take in as your pay. Noth- 
ing complicated about that. 

Start Earning at 
Once 



If only three or four 
people had made money 
as fast as this, you 
might call it an acci- 
dent. But scores have 
done it! These are only 
a few — if space per- 
mitted I could print 
MANY MORE reports 
of exceptional earnings, 
every one sworn to as 
being the truth, the whole truth, and 
nothing but the truth. When these 
people first beard of my proposition 
they may have been skeptical. But 
they were wise enough to investigate. 
When they received the complete facts 
that I will now send you absolutely 
Free they opened their eyes in amaze- 
ment and got busy. 

Now I offer you the same opportunity I gave 
them. The very minute I hear from you I'll 
send you a few simple, easily read details, 
explaining just how you can start earning the 
very first day. You will be amazed how sim- 
ple this Fast Money-Making plan really is. 



Ladles Wanted, Tool 

Many ladies, both mar- 
ried and single, hare had 
unusually good success 
with my money making 
plan. They say It is 
possible to make as much 
as the men do — up to 
$10.00 and more in a day 
for full time, and as high 
as $6.50 in a day for 
spare time. Don't hesi- 
tate just because you are 
a woman. Send for this 
information. I will be 
glad to send it. Free. 



My unique plan pro- 
vides a way to get im- 
mediate earnings. As 
long as you are hon- 
est and reliable you are 
eligible for this oppor- 
tunity. Due to big ex- 
pansion program, I want 
someone in every terri- 
tory. I am able to give 
this splendid money- 
making opportunity to 
more men and women 
at once. There is no 
red tape connected with 
this offer. 

Send No Money— Just Name 

Send me your name so I can lay the 
facts before you, then you can decide 
if the earning possibilities are satisfac- 
tory. Don't miss this chance. It doesn't 
cost you anything to investigate. You 
can't lose by mailing the coupon or a 
penny post card for free details. Do it 
today— NOW. 

ALBERT MILLS, 7717 Monmouth 
Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio 



FORD SEDANS GIVEN 

In addition to the cash earnings 
that you will make, I will give 
you a brand new Ford Sedan as 
an extra reward if you show 
me you are a pro- 
ducer. Send for 
free facts at once. 




^Albert Mills. President 
I 7717 Monmouth Ave., Cincinnati, Ohio 

J Send me free facta. Tell me how I can start at 
once making up to $42.50 In a week end get a new 
8-Cylinder Ford Sedan as a bonus In Addition to 

my big cash earnings. 



Name. 



Address . 



(Please Print or Write Plainly) 



1/ ,.«•»- - v 

ELECTRICITY 

IN 12 WEEKS AT COYNE 



The great Coyne Shops In Chicago have a world-wide rep-J 
utation for training ambitious fellows for this big-pay field 
In only 12 weeks. Then help you by giving you lifetime 
employment service. By my newplan YOU can take ad van- 
tage of their wonderful method of learning-by-doing NOW. 

SEND TODAY FOR DETAILS OF MY 

" PayTuitton-After- 
■>: \ Graduation" Plan 

Get training in 90 days on real 
electrical machinery. Send the 
coupon today. If you are short of 
a|| money I 'U send you ail details of my 
Hi finance plan. If accepted, you won't 
W have to start paying tuition until 
Ave months from the date you 
■tart school, and then you'll havo 
k 18 months to complete your pay- 
i.si>ments.SenaforBlsFreeillU8trated 
SBook telling all about COYNE and 
how many earn while learning 
and training you can get 
there without _» a " . , 
book study orjU.f^njufL 
uselesatheory. •*? *• • "P" * 

COYNE ELECTRICAL SCHOOL 
800 S. Paulina Streets Dept. 85-66, Chicago, Illinois 
MR. H. C. LEWIS, President 
Dept. 85-66.500 S. Paulina St., Chicago, III. 

Send BIO FREE IUiiHtratod Book on ELECTRICITY sod details 

of roar "Pay-Tultlon-Atter-Graduatlon" Plan. 

NAME AGE,. 

ADDRESS 




CITY. 



J COMPLETE 



New "Home) 
Factory" Makes 

NEW KIND POTATO CHIPS 
DON UTS— SALTED NUTS 

Stop looking for something difficult. Turn 
potatoes Into cash. I show you ]ust how 
H'ith my newly perfected outfit. Start any- 
where. Very little cash needed. Exclusive 
location. Profits pour in. No experience 
needed. I furnish the plans. Begin any- 
where — village, small town, city or suburb. 
A big opportunity is waiting. Business per- 
manent. 

Make Up to 300% P rofit on Raw Materials 

Raw materials are 
plentiful and cheap. 
Highly perfected out- 
fit and confidential 
plans make operation 
simple, with startling 
profits certain. 



m 



Complete 16-unit 
Outfit includes new 
type vitreoui white 
enamel ROUND 
Cooking Vat, Direct- 
to-fat high speed 
Slicer, centrifugal 
Greaae Extractor, 
Thermometer — 
PoaitiTely every- 
thing necesiary to 
start— all at new 
low price. 




WE HELP FINANCE YOU 

and locate you. Send no money, just name, 
for book of facts and free opportunity. 

LONG-EAKINS COMPANY 
1093-S High St. Springfield, Ohio 




Best Support 

Rupture 



ir 



Is the Human Hand 



The moment you put on a Brooks Appliance you will notice the pliable, flesh-like touch 
of die soft rubber air cushion. Light in weight, it clings without slipping, yet freely ad- 
justs to changes of position as the human hand would do. Your first experience with the 
Brooks Appliance will be a revelation to you in comfort and security. 

Stop Your Rupture Worries! 



Nomore springs — nohaidpads — no salves ot 
sticky plasters. The marvelous-acting Brooks 
Appliance holds rupture with an automatic 
air cushion that "breathes" as you move— 
gives plenty of firm support without gouging 
— stays in position without chafing. It holds 
the rupture in a manner which permits Na- 
ture to act without mechanical interference. 
And, now, you can use one of these won- 
derful appliances at our risk. 

Each Brooks Appliance is Individually 
made to order. No "shelf goods". A simple 



blank which you fill out in the privacy of 
your own home gives us exact information 
needed to properly fit your individual case 
— without trouble, embarrassment or incon- 
venience to you. Then the appliance is sent 
you at our risk. If you don't say it is the 
best support you ever had, send it back and 
the trial will cost you nothing. 

A Free Book explaining the cause and 
proper support of Rupture will be sent 
postage prepaid in plain wrapper to anyone 
interested. No letter necessary. Just send in 
your name and address. 



BROOKS APPUANCE CO., 174*C State Street. MARSHALL, MICH, 



vearn - 0 MOUNT BIRDS 

^ HOME & ANIMALS-BEAT^ 



THAT'S JUST */HAT\ 
»"VC BEEN THINKING— 
JIM, I'M GOING TO WRITE 

TOTHEKwmtttcsTcaN 

SCHOOL of TAXIDERMY 
AND SEE. IP I CAN'T 
LEARN TO MOUNT 
MV BEST 
TROPHIES 



THAT WAS A GREAT 
HUNTING TRIO, BILL,, 
ALL THE DUCKS V/E. 
WANT. OUT IT SEEMS 
A SHAME TO THROW 
AWAY THIS BEAUTIFUL 
.PLUMAGE 




l WELL, I SEE YOU REALLY ARE TAKING I 
v -~— vTAXiDERMV IN EARNEST, BILL. 

THAT'S RIGHT, UIM— AND I'VE NEVERl 
HAD SO MUCH FUN IN MV LIFE. I'VE ( 
ACTUALLY DOUBLED THE PLEASURE I 
GET FROM MV HUNTING AND REALLY ; 
HAVE SOMETHING TO SHOW FOR IT. 

COME IN THE^ 
HOUSE AND IT 
I'LL SHOW ft 
YOU SOMEAa 
OF MY 
WORK. 




f I'VE SOLD MANY BOOK-ENDS, 
LAMPS, ASH-TRAYS, PIPE RACKS, 
AND SOON TO SPORTSMEN FOR 

THEIR DENS I'VE LEARNED 

TO TAN FURS FOR CAPS, SCARFS 
AND RUGS, AND — BEST OF ALU— 
INSTEAD OF THROWING AWAY THOSE 
COW-HIDES, I TAN THEM INTO LEATHER 
FOR BELTS, HAR NESS AND STRAPS 

( BUT WASN'T ) | 
S if X *■» ""A TAXIDERMY \ I 
HARD TO \ 
LEARN, BIU?J 



' HARD? NOT A BIT, AFTER YOU GET THE HANG OF j 
IT. WHY JIM, TO ME TAXIDERMY IS THE GRAND4 
EST HOBBY IN THE WORLD. I'VE MADE AS HIGH L 
AS #75 PER MONTH IN MY SPARE TIME, MOUNTING J 
TROPHIES FOR HUNTERS. WHV DON'T YOU y-i 

TAl^F IT I ID? j - — ^ — 1^ — — - -■ " H ' _ I 

f "M SURE GOING TO — WHAT'S^ 
THAT ADDRESS? I HAD NO 
IDEA WHAT fVE BEEN MISSING. 






AmaztagPleasnreandProSitsiiiTfaisArt 



TOi; LBAMN IT EASILY, QUICKLY, BY MAIL IN SPAKE TIME 

. .k Hen, boys, women, — Study Taxidermy. Taught by Experts. 

fj \\ ALL SECRETS revealed. It will amaze and delight yon. 

tL/ V^r Hunters — Fisherman Wild Game Not Needed 

w 




Save your game trophies. They are 
Valuable. Mount them for home and 
den. Have a Museum. Win fame 
as a Taxidermist. Make undreamed- 
of money in spare time . . . You learn 
to meant (stuff) txpertly. Birds, Ani- 
mal*, Pith, Oame-Kexds, just like life. 
That' hi Taxidermy. You can be a Taxi- 
dermist. Will you? Sorely yoa are Inter- 
ested. Mall Coupon right now fort be aston- 
ishing Fro* Book. 

Oar Students Succeed 

This old reliable school has graduated 260,000 
students with uniform satisfaction. If we have 
taught tfate VAST number, yoa MUST agree 
that we can teach YOU also . We offer yoa with 
FRIDE oar success In teaching this vast num- 
ber. We KNOW yoa will be delighted. So §"*«•» ***** Proms. The- Free, 
BEND COUPON TODAY FOR FREE BOOK. Bo * ,k ^'s about it. Send coopon.' 



You can use common animals and 
birds; squirrels, rabbits, little chicks, pup- 
pies, kittens, pigeons, even frogs. Mount 
them in human and bumoroc.3 groups. Real 
Fun; and profitable, too. This is known as 

Craft and Novelty taxidermy; it'B Included in our 
caique lessons. It's Marvelous. Write the ecbool 
tfc}& minute! 

Is Taxidermy Profitable? 

We believe that NO OTHER BUSINESS offers 

each large spare- time profits. Many students earn 
§40 to *100amonth from SPARE TIME ALONE. 
They Bell their mounts, thev monnt for others. 
VE|TJGATE this WQHbEHiVh 



Learn Tanning 



Tan fine harness, sole ard chrome 

leathers; also furs with the hair on. Ex- 

Brt Methods, easily learned. Save 
•nay making your on a leathers; 
'-* -» Money tannins' lor others. 



Mail Coupon 

Or s postcard will do. No obligation 
on your Bart. Tbe beautiful Boole* 
wii b hundreds of entrancing Pictures 
is Pro*. Do not miss this wonderful 
opportunity to obtain the marvelous 
and valuable book, FREE and POST- 
PAID. Write today.. State your Age. 

NOftTHW£STERN SCHOOL OP TAXIDERMY 
3038 EG wood Bide.. Omaha, Neb. 



FREE BOOK 



iPjINorl (western School of Taxidermy, 
[■Mi 3038 1 El wood Bids., Omaha. Neb.. 



fid- 

rVSeinfroe your free illustrated book, ''How 
Id* to Meant Game" Alao tell me how I may 
■^jlearn this fasHnatiss art easily and quickly 
yoor age. 



_P snail. No obligation. State y 



5 A +£~t 




£AftN GOOD PAY 

RAFTING 

KSS.'TKet read V ^ a BETTER job and 
MORE PAY! I'll teach you drafting bythe 
PRACTICAL METHOD at home. I fur- 
nish all tools and drawing table. Earn while 
you learn in your spare time. No previous 
experience needed. FREE Employment 
Service 1 Thousands of successful gradu- 
KfoCC uates since 1900. Big opportuni- 
■"Imtfc ties in drafting. Prepare now! 
RAOIf Write Today for FREE BOOK on 
D Wff% Draftsmanship. No obligations. 

ENGINEER DOBE. Div. 80-3% LIBERTYVILLE, ILL. 





DEVELOP i PRINT , 

Your Own Snapshots 
COMPLETE OUTFIT 



SAVE TIME AND MONEY 

This high - grade outfit will enable you to 

do fine developing and finishing, at trifling cost. 
Includes electric ruby lamp, photo paper, chemi- 
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i Guaranteed. Order Today. Send' for copy of 

our Sensational Bargain Book; thousands of 
money-saving photographic Items. It's FREE. 
CENTRAL CAMERA CO. Est. 1899 
230 S.Wabash Ave., Dept. N.s.ll, Chicago 





STUDY AT HOME 

Legally trained men win high 
positions and big- success in 
business and public life. Be in- 
dependent. Greater opportunities now 
than ever before. Big corporations are 
beaded by men withlegai training. Barn 

$3,000 to $10,000 Annually 

We guide you step fay step. You can train at horns 
during spare time. Degree of LL. B. conferred. 

ul graduates in every section of the United States. We 

furnish all text material, including fourteen-voiume Law Library. 
! Low cost, easy terms. Get our valuable fi4-psga "Law Training for 
F Leaderahip" and "Evidence" books FREE. Send for tbem NOW. 
LaSalle Extension University, Dept 1 175- L, Chicago 



Do you feel you have a valuable invention 
— but can't get it before the right people? 
Are you groping in the dark — wondering 
which way to turn — getting nowhere? 
Learn how other men with inventions have 
cashed in. Write for my FREE Book, 
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THE ONE-MAN KINGDOM 
OF TRINIDAD 
Kenneth P. Wood 

IN THE mid nineties, an adventurous 
French-American named James A. 
Harden-Hickey announced himself 
King of Trinidad and sent his ambas- 
sador to Washington to ask for formal 
recognition of the title. 

This was not the Trinidad of asphalt 
fame, but a small rocky island seven hun- 
dred miles off the coast of Brazil. It 
boasted of no inhabitants when Harden- 
Hickey came upon it in 1888. Finding 
guano upon the island in marketable quan- 
tities he projected a great plant for its 
exportation, including costly wharves, and 
spacious warehouses. Then, in 1894, after 
planting a colony of forty Americans upon 
its shores, he set himself up as its sovereign 
prince, assuming the title of "James I of 
Trinidad." 

He adopted a flag for his principality, 
had paper-money and postage stamps 
printed, and even established an order of 
knighthood. But uneasy this crowned 
head began to rest when none of the powers 
would recognize his pretensions. Then his 
throne began to totter, in the -spring of 
1895, when a British cruiser called at his 
stronghold and formally took possession. 

But when Brazil heard that the British 
flag was floating over the dominions of 
King James, all sorts of indignation meet- 
ings were held at Rio de Janeiro, for the 
Brazilians had claimed the island empire 
as their own. An emphatic protest was 
presented to England, which could only 
10 



reply that her occupation of the isle was 
merely temporary, for the purpose of in- 
stalling a cable-station. Then the English 
finally receded and recognized Brazil by 
withdrawing her man-of-war. 

Meanwhile, however, James I was mis- 
erably ignored by the contracting parties. 
So he appointed an ambassador, conferred 
upon him some high-sounding decorations, 
and packed him off to the United States 
under the label of the "Comte de la Bois- 
siere, Grand Chancellor and Secretary for 
Foreign Affairs of the Principality of 
Trinidad." That was enough for the 
ubiquitous New York reporters. They 
published the fact that the rotund "count" 
was a French wine-agent. 

Nevertheless he set up his embassy, not 
in Washington, but on the ground-floor 
rooms of a humble brick tenement in the 
metropolis, from which he made visits to 
the national capital in vain hope of pouring 
into the ear of the Secretary of State the 
troubles of his sovereign prince. But the 
latter was satisfied to have Brazil keep the 
guano kingdom as her own, and so poor 
King James passed out of his island king- 
dom, and out of history, as well. 




BIGGEST AND BEST— ACTION 




Short 



TWICE A MONTH 



CONTENTS 



THE ONE-MAN KINGDOM OF TRINIDAD 



Kenneth P. Wood 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN (First Part of Four) 

H. Bedford- Jones \% 

The Devil's Bosun Had Been Playing the Devil with 
Shipping over Borneo Way. 

BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS (A Novelette) 

James B. Hendryx 44 

Bond Salesmen on Halfaday Creek! Black John Smith a 
Customer! Cold Cash in Hot Money! Wow! 

MURDER ON MALITON6A Robert H. Rohde oO 

A South Sea Island — and Ben Lark's Ten Thousand 



Detective Moffat Had to Produce Results or Else — 

THE BLACK GOD (A Complete Novel) 

David Owen Daher 84 

He Was a Black God Who Spoke to the Jungle People, but 
His Voice Came from Far Beyond Their Boundaries. 



Pound Yawn. 



DAW6 TRACKS 



G. W. Barrington 



71 



ADVENTURE, THRILLS, MYSTERY 

Stories 

Title Registered in 

HARRY E. MAULE, EDITOR U. S. Patent Office 




NOV. 10th, 1935' 



ADVENTURERS ALL Captain J. M. EUrich izz 

Sharking Waters 

EXTRA HAND Harold F. Cruickshank 114 

Extra Hand — Huh! Pretty Near the Whole Works on 
that Deep Sea Logging Boom. 

BADLAND MEET Duane Hopkins 136 

A Drunken Telegraph Operator Gets Religion at 
an Opportune Time. 

HEADING SOUTH (A Novelette) Henry Herbert Knibbs 149 

Young Pete Cleans Up an Outlaw Gang in Exchange 

for a Pardon. 

THE STORY TELLERS* CIRCLE 168 
OUTLANDS AND AIRWAYS 172 
ENDS OF THE EARTH CLUB 173 

COVER— W. F. Soare 

Vol. CLIII, No. 3 Whole No. 717 



The entire contents of this magazine is projected by copyright, and must not be reprinted. 
Copyright, 1S35, by Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc. 




12 



10 



MASTER PIRATE OF THE EASTERN SEAS 





~ The Devil ? s Bosun 



By H. BEDFORD-JONES 

Author of Many Outstanding Adventure Stories 

Part I 



THE truth is revealed only in 
the sequence of events. You 
might think the meetings that 
morning on the bridge across 
the River of Gold were pure 
coincidence. They were not. Here was 
a gathering of forces, a culmination of 
schemes and cunning intents, apparently 
centered about Cairn but really concerned 
with someone much more important in the 
Eastern seas. 

Cairn was idly smoking a cheroot on 
the bridge; he frequently stood loafing 
here, watching the crowds. Cairn was a 
man from hell, but did not look it. He 
10 13 



was lean and brown and hard, erect and 
trim in his whites, the four gold stripes of 
a captain on the arm of his jacket. His 
hatchet-face was young, almost unlined, 
and his gray eyes held humorous glints. A 
man of twenty-five seldom shows the sear- 
ing scars of hell, except in his actions and 
reactions. 

On either bank were the buildings of 
Surabaya, half drowned in the luxuriant 
foliage of Java. The muddy yellow torrent 
of the Kali Das, the River of Gold, was 
spotted with native boats. Across the 
bridge poured an endless tide of humanity ; 
Dutch sepoys, laden coolies, natives in 
brilliant sarongs, Hindus and Chinese, the 
throngs starred by unhurried Europeans. 



SHORT STORIES 



A perspiring Chinese clerk came up to 
Cairn, spoke him, and handed over a chit. 
Cairn opened the note and read the brief 
words : 

"Please come to the office. The Ta Ming 
is chartered. 

Li Tock Lo." 

So the old bumboat was chartered, and 
he must get on the job! Cairn smiled. 
Working for a Chinese shipping firm was 
not bad by half, for a man from hell. He 
liked them, they liked and trusted him, de- 
spite his past. 

"Tuan kapitan !" Cairn heard a low, gut- 
tural voice, and found a man at his elbow. 
An old Malay, who spoke very fluent Eng- 
lish. "Is there not need for a servant? 
I am sick at heart for the sea. Once I was 
a nakoda, a ship captain. I am a good 
steward, cook, quartermaster, servant." 

Cairn inspected the man. Why not? 
In a land of servants, he could well afford 
a man of his own, and here was one who 
spoke English. A rather small man, fea- 
tures flat like a dish, a fresh and unhealed 
knife-scar running across one cheek. 
Touches of gray at the temples, miserable 
dirty rags for clothes ; neither affluent nor 
young, this man. 

"Your name?" 

"Ali, tuan. I can take good care of 
clothes." 

"Your own don't prove it." 

"Poverty and illness, tuan, are in the 
dispensation of Allah." 

"You have references?" 

"Yes, tuan. I am from Kelantan. I 
know few people here. But " 

He thrust out a dirty, folded paper. Cairn 
- took it, opened it, and read : 

"Ali deserves all trust. I recommend him." 

No name was signed ; merely a vermilion 
seal in Chinese. Cairn knew it to be the 
personal seal of Li Tock Lo, and whistled 
in surprise. A coincidence, of course. But 
if shrewd Li Tock Lo recommended any- 



one, especially a Malay, it meant every- 
thing. Chinese and Malays despise each 
other. 

"Very well, you're hired," said Cairn 
promptly. "We'll talk wages later." 

"Agreed, tuan. May Allah requite you !" 

CAIRN produced a key and a banknote. 
"Here's money ; get yourself decent 
clothes. This is the key of my room at 
the Hotel Beaulieu, the French one. Go 
there, pack my things, and await me." 

He spoke in Malay, and Ali, showing his 
black teeth in a grin, departed. 

Cairn lit a fresh cheroot and sauntered 
toward the shipping office. He'd be glad 
of a servant who spoke English; it would 
add to his dignity, too. He turned in at 
Reilly's Bar and had a drink, passed the 
time of day with the half Irish proprietor, 
and went his way. 

The shipping office was a low, pleasant 
place where punkas and electric fans stirred 
the air. Cairn was passed directly into the 
office of Li Tock Lo, a Straits Chinese of 
great girth and fat moon-face. Li shook 
hands cordially, and Cairn dropped into the 
indicated chair. 

"So we're chartered, eh? When do we 
leave?" 

"Stores are going aboard now, Captain. 
You'll leave in the morning." 

Cairn's brows lifted. "But cargo " 

"There is none, on the out trip. A Myn- 
heer Vandunk has chartered the Ta Ming 
for Coomassin in ballast, to return with 
cargo. He will be here in a few minutes ; I 
wish you to meet him." 

Something in the fat Chinaman's man- 
ner puzzled Cairn and caught his attention. 

"Hm! All right. How about a crew?" 

"Vandunk is engaging his own crew and 
officers, also paying them. You " 

"What the devil!" exclaimed Cairn in 
astonishment. "But that's not regular!" 

"You will sign them on tonight, here at 
the office," proceeded Li Tock Lo impas- 
sively. "Vandunk expects to bring back 
a valuable cargo and wishes to have men 
he can trust. It is not regular, but quite 

10 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



natural. I should say that Mynheer Van- 
dunk has influence in the Dutch Colonial 
Office. He has wealth, and desires more, 
which Coomassin will give him." 

Something in the flat, emotionless voice 
dinged again at Cairn's attention. There 
was more than appeared on the surface. 
He knew this fat yellow man pretty well. 
It would come out in good time. 

"Where's Coomassin?" 

"Look in your pilot guide, Captain. The 
island lies off the Celebes coast; it has no 
good harbor. I have prepared detailed 
instructions for your guidance in this re- 
spect. It has been semi-independent until 
last year when the sultan rebelled. The 
Dutch killed him and took over the island, 
leaving his daughter on the throne. Most 
unluckily, bubonic plague broke out. This 
is now over and ended. A resident and a 
garrison of sepoys are there. No more 
trouble. Mynheer Vandunk has a con- 
cession covering the island. He is taking 
with him an English gentleman and his 
sister who are interested in leasing the 
rubber plantations from Vandunk. I think 
that covers the situation, in brief." 

"Hm!" Cairn scowled slightly. The 
scowl made his face harsh, intolerant, 
cruel. "Concession, eh? What sort?" 

"Comprehensive," replied Li Tock Lo. 
"The island belongs to Mynheer Van- 
dunk." 

"By grant of the Dutch government, eh ? 
That means slavery " 

"It is really none of our business," plac- 
idly said Li Tock Lo. 

"Right; I'm rebuked," and Cairn broke 
into a laugh. "Look here, Li, I've hired 
a man. Going to put on a little dog by 
having my own servant. The fellow said 
you knew him. He's a Malay named Ali." 

"Half the barbarian Malays are named 
Ali," said Li. "I remember one such man ; 
he is not young, but speaks English. He 
may be trusted. As a youth, he spent sev- 
eral years in England. His morals are 
deplorable, but he does not steal." 

"Fair enough," and Cairn nodded. 
"From you, that's a high recommendation." 



TI TOCK LO permitted himself a smile. 

"May I be pardoned for suggesting, 
Captain, that you do not drink any more 
today?" 

"That's really my own business, Li," said 
Cairn drily. "I intend to drink, and to 
drink plenty. I don't get drunk, as you 
know. I merely blunt memory." 

"Absurd. The past is a sharp sword 
that cannot be blunted." The flat voice 
was suddenly edged and keen. "I am 
sending my young relative Erh Tan as 
supercargo aboard the ship, to which Myn- 
heer Vandunk has agreed. I wish him to 
be protected. I desire that you do not 
drink." 

"Oh! Fair enough. In that case, it's 
agreed," said Cairn. "Not until we reach 
Coomassin, anyhow. I'll take good care 
of your relative. A young chap, eh?" 

Li Tock Lo nodded, produced a fan from 
his sleeve, and fanned himself gently. 

"An estimable youth but inexperienced," 
he said blandly. "I am trying to teach 
him that the strongest forces in the world 
are often those which appear the weakest. 
A valuable lesson for anyone to know." 

Again the indefinite something caught at 
Cairn. He looked the speaker in the eye. 

"Meaning that for me, eh ? All right ; I 
get it. What sort of man is Vandunk?" 

"I do not know ; I have not seen him. 
His agent arranged everything," Li Tock 
Lo responded. "His agent is one John 
Drift, who goes as first officer " 

A buzzer sounded. Li Tock Lo leaned 
forward and pressed a bell-button on his 
desk. 

"There is Mynheer Vandunk now," he 
said. "Whether you like him or not, please 
be very polite; his influence in colonial 
affairs is large." 

The door opened. The fat moon-face of 
Li Tock Lo expressed surprise, as into the 
office came a small, brisk man with droop- 
ing mustaches and a very red nose. 

"Hullo, Li, hullo," he said in English, 
then blinked at Cairn. "Eh?" 

"Why. Mr. Drift 1" exclaimed Li Tock 



3 6 



SHORT STORIES 



Lo. "I expected to see Mynheer Van- 
dunk " 

"Blast it, he went and missed the train 
at Batavia !" said Drift with evident agita- 
tion and a slight cockney accent. "I just 
'ad a wire from 'im to see you. He won't 
get 'ere until morning. That is, the train 
as gets in about three. He'll go right 
aboard ship, says 'e." 

"So. Mr. Drift, this is Captain Cairn, 
who commands the ship." 

Drift wrung the hand of Cairn and ex- 
claimed cheerfully. 

"Glad, sir, perishing glad ! Board o' 
Trade ticket, I take it?" 

"Yes," said Cairn. The brisk little man 
beamed. 

"Right, right. First officer in steam — 
never 'ad my master's examination, blast it! 




I'll be here at seven tonight to sign on 
the crew and go aboard, if that suits you, 
sir". 

"Quite," said Cairn. Mr. Drift glanced 
at his watch. 

"I'll 'ave to see Mr. Tracey and 'is 
sister," he rattled on. "They'll want to get 
aboard tonight too. At the Netherlands 
Hotel, they are. The blasted ship 'as no 
passenger license. I've arranged to sign 
'em on as chief stewards and take 'em 
aboard wi' their luggage late tonight after 
dinner. I 'opes, sir, it meets with your 
consent?" 

HE PEERED anxiously at Cairn, who 
nodded. Then he departed. When 
the door had closed, Li Tock Lo regarded 
Cairn with a twinkle. 



"That man spoke much, and you uttered 
two words. Hm! I'm sorry not to meet 
Vandunk. By the way, Captain, I've se- 
cured government permission to put a 
dozen rifles and as many pistols aboard; 
you know, there's been so much piracy of 
late along the Celebes coast that the pre- 
caution should be observed." 

Cairn laughed. "We've nothing worth 
robbing aboard the Ta Ming." 

"You may have, returning. And this 
pirate holds people to ransom. The Dutch 
and English are both trying to run him 
down. Singular, they can't even discover 
much about him !" 

"You mean the chap called the Devil's 
Bosun?" queried Cairn. 

"Yes. Said to be a white man, leading 
natives. Well, let us hope you don't run 
into him. I should regret having to ran- 
som my young relative, Erh Tan. He will 
be here this evening at seven, by the way, 
to be signed on." 

"How about stewards?" asked Cairn. 
"And the black gang?" 

"It seems that Vandunk — or his agent — 
bring a complete crew. Perhaps they, too, 
are taking no chances on accomplices of 
the pirates stowing away aboard. It is 
a wise precaution. Mr. Drift, by the way, 
is attending to all the ship's papers ; 
through the official assistance extended to 
Mynheer Vandunk, it is made easy." 

A queer business all around, thought 
Cairn, as he took his departure after all 
final arrangements. The Ta Ming was a 
small coastwise steamer of no great speed, 
comfort or ability. She had just got rid 
of a copra cargo, which increased her usual 
evil odor, -end she was ready to start as 
soon as stores were in and steam up. 

Queer, all of it. Vaguely, indefinitely 
queer; Li Tock Lo had sensed it without 
knowing why. Natural enough that a 
Dutch official would want to put his own 
crew aboard rather than trust Chinese. 
The Devil's Bosun was playing the devil 
with shipping over Borneo way, and often 
worked by stowing some of his pirates 
aboard the ship he meant to loot. 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



17 



Natural enough that an official would 
be given an island concession. It meant 
virtual plunder, slavery and death for the 
unfortunate natives, who did not matter in 
the least. Particularly if they were Malays 
and therefore Mohammedan in religion. 

Natural enough that an Englishman and 
his master, probably from Singapore or 
North Borneo, would want the rubber out- 
put. Natural enough that Vandunk 
should miss his train down from Batavia 
to Surabaya. And yet all of it, every bit 
of it, conveyed a queer and indefinite sen- 
sation of being a trifle screwy. 

SO THINKING, Cairn went back to 
Reilly's Bar and bought half a case of 
Irish whiskey to be sent aboard for later 
consumption. He refused a drink. He 
was paying Reilly, when he heard a voice 
behind him. 

"Bill, if that isn't Mark Hudson, I'm a 
liar! It's Hudson, I tell you! Hey, 
Mark! Mark!" 

Cairn paid no attention. A hand caught 
his arm. He turned, to see two men star- 
ing at him. He knew them both instantly ; 
but his look of surprised interrogation was 
perfectly assumed. 

"I beg your pardon," said one of the two, 
a bit confused by that straight, blank look. 
"But aren't you Mark Hudson? You must 
be — you remember me — we were both in 

your class at Annapolis " 

Cairn's brows lifted. "Sorry," he said, 
with a deliberate English accent on the 
word. "Mistake, no doubt." My name is 
Cairn." 

"Here's your change, Cap'n Cairn," broke 
in Reilly, handing over money? Cairn took 
it, nodded, and walked out, leaving the two 
Americans looking after him. They turned 
to Reilly and overwhelmed the latter with 
questions. 

"No manner of use, gents," said Reilly. 
"I've kndwed him a couple o' year. Master 
in steam he is — Cap'n Cairn. Where 
from? Lor' bless you! Liverpool Irish 
as ever was. Told me so hisself. What'll 
it be, gents?" 



The two shook their heads at each other. 
A mistake, of course; Mark Hudson had 
been drowned the night before the court- 
martial. Had tried to escape and had been 
drowned. An old Annapolis custom. 
Damned good thing, too; saved all hands 
from disgrace. Drunken robbery, a woman 
tangled up in it — yes, a damned good thing. 
Men who made mistakes of that sort had 
no business in the navy. 

But Cairn, cursing under his breath, 
walked home to his French hotel with eyes 
so bitter and hard that men who met him 
turned sharply away. He needed a drink 
now, wanted a dozen drinks, a whole bottle. 
Why the devil had he promised not to take 
a drink until he reached Coomassin? Now 
was when he needed it most. 

He found Ali in his room, quietly pack- 
ing his things. The dish-faced little old 
Malay now wore a fresh sarong and jacket. 
His teeth were quite black from chewing 
betel-paste, Cairn observed. 

"Well, Ali ! We're going to Coomassin. 
Know where that is ?" 

"No, tuan kapitan. I never heard of it." 

"So much the better. 'Neither did I. 
You're free until seven tonight." 

"If the tuan permits, I will stay here," 

"Suit yourself. Lay out a fresh suit 
for me." Cairn departed to his bath. 
Later, he found his clothes ready, and flung 
a laughing question at Ali. "Where'd you 
learn so much about getting clothes 
ready?" 

"By having servants of my own, tuan," 
said Ali. Cairn did not press the topic, 
from a feeling of delicacy. 

AS HE had not eaten since morning, he 
L was ready for a very early dinner — 
he had to be at the office by seven. He left 
everything packed, gave Ali money and 
orders to be there with his bags at the ap- 
pointed time, and swung out of the little 
hotel. 

What was the name of those English 
people? Tracey, yes, and at the Nether- 
lands. Cairn went straight there, being 
curious. Woman aboard, eh? Not so 



SHORT STORIES 



good. Still, these stiff Englishwomen 
didn't matter; they were sexless creatures, 
as a rule. Not like blooming, rosy Eu- 
rasian girls. 

Cairn caught sight of them talking with 
Mr. Drift. He dropped into a chair, held 
up a newspaper, and kept an eye on them. 
At first he was staggered. Tracey was 
a young fellow, blond and eager, but far 
gone in liquor ; nearly drunk, in fact. The 
sister was slim and cool, lovely as a flower 
unfolding. Cairn regarded her sourly, ap- 
praising her with jaundiced eye. Too 
damned cool altogether, too capable, bound 
by restraint and icy convention. Bah ! 

Mr. Drift went off with the young fel- 
low, toward the bar. Cairn caught a flash 
of emotion in the girl's face as she looked 
after them — anxiety, even fear, widening 
the lovely blue eyes. He let the news- 
paper fall. She felt his gaze and her eyes 
touched on him for an instant, then drifted 
away. She rose and departed. 

With a scornful grunt, Cairn strode off 
to get his dinner. 

"I bet the Dutchman trims those two 
Britishers," he reflected. "Rubber, eh? 
And she tags along to keep the young fool 
sober — which she doesn't do. Bah! Bet 
she gets a few healthy shocks at Coomassin, 
or before. Do her good." 

Dinner over, with time to spare, Captain 
Cairn drifted back to Reilly's Bar in order 
to meet a Scotch tramp skipper whom he 
wanted to see. He did not find his man, 
but two officers of a Burns-Philp boat were 
standing at the bar after many drinks, and 
one of them uttered the name of Coomas- 
sin. 

"Sultan of Coomassin's daughter — aye, 
that's who she is," said one, handing over a 
photograph. "I hear she's running the 
bloody outfit now. Did you ever see the 
likes? My good gosh, what a woman! 
What a woman!" 

"Aye, she's likely enough," said the 
Other, with a catch in his voice. 

Cairn came up beside them and looked. 
A pulse leaped in him at sight of the pic- 
tured face. Sultan's daughter? Nonsense! 



Pure Caucasian, and ineffably lovely; a 
face to take away the breath of a man, eyes 
to hold his heart — one of those chance pic- 
tures where the eyes look out and pierce. 

"Hi, there! Who are you, horning in?" 
With an oath, the two Aussies swung an- 
grily around. Cairn laughed, reached for- 
ward, and took the picture. A fist swung 
into his midriff. 

His fists struck out, lightly it seemed. A 
blow smashed him squarely in the eye; 
those two could fight. Glasses shivered, 
Reilly shrieked for help. One of the two 
went staggering down the length of the bar. 
The other spun around and was knocked 
over a table, and went crashing down with 
it. 

Cairn, still laughing, strode out. In the 
street, he paused to look again at the pic- 
ture. Head and shoulders, no more. An 
almost Grecian face, smiling a little, so un- 
utterably perfect and adorable that his 
pounding heart stood still. 

"Sultan's daughter, hell !" said Cairn, as 
he thrust it safely away. "There, by God, 
is a woman — a real woman, not an iceberg ! 
Now I know why I'm going to Coomas- 
sin." 

TTE WALKED into the shipping office 
at seven o'clock with one eye puffed 
and blackening. The brisk Mr. Drift was 
there, and so were the other officers. 
Lochaber, a portly Scotch engineer, and his 
assistant who had Chinese blood. Andrews, 
second officer; a dark, taciturn man with 
cruel devils in his black eyes and an ugly 
twist to his lips. A powerful fellow, An- 
drews. Chinese steward, halfbreed quar- 
termasters; bfack gang, deck hands, cook 
and helper— all halfbreeds or Malays or 
Chinese. Not a Dutchman in the lot. 

And this was the queerest thing of all, 
thought Cairn. 

Evidently Erh Tan thought the same 
thing, and the other clerks; Li Tock Lo 
was not here. Erh Tan was a plump young 
man, small, clad in black jacket and skirt 
of beautiful silk brocade ; his features werte 
exquisitely carven, like old ivory. His eyes 



{THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



flitted in surprise and wonder over the 
assembled men. He turned, caught the 
gaze of Cairn, and smiled slightly. 

Cairn liked him. He did not like this 
crew. None was drunk; and this was a 
strange thing, also. He had a word with 
Lochaber, the chief engineer. An unpleas- 
ant fat rascal of perhaps fifty, loose-lipped 
and heavy-jowled, with an odor about him. 
Over the room hung the same odor. Cairn 
had sharp nostrils, and sniffed at it with a 
frown. He touched Erh Tan on the elbow 
and met the slitted eyes. 

"What is it I smell?" he said under his 
breath. "What's this odor?" 

"Chandu," muttered the yellow man. 

Opium, eh? The whole lot of them. That 
looked queer, too. 

Cairn wondered what was the matter 
with him, that he should have this strange 
feeling about the whole business. Perhaps, 
meeting those two Americans and being 
recognized? No, not that. 

The only natural touch to the affair was 
that of the Tracey girl ; and Cairn grunted 
again at thought of her. The picture in 
his pocket — well, it might be a mistake. 
Those two Australians might have lied 
about it No telling. 

The comprador wakened him from his 
musing. All ready to go aboard ; the boats 
were waiting. 

A silent lot. No jokes, no stories, no 
talking. Less and less did Cairn like his 
outfit, but they were signed on now; no 
backing down. He found himself curious 
to see Vandunk. Mr. Drift stuck close to 
his side, chattering and rattling away with 
eternal nervous energy. Nervous? By 
God, that might be it! The brisk little 
devil was nervous. What about? Then 
Mr. Drift departed to seek the passengers. 

Questions died. The river, the harbor, 
the glinting lights, the boats awaiting them, 
the men piling in with their duffel-bags. 
Cairn wanted another look at the photo- 
graph in his pocket, and wanted it badly. 

There was the old scow now, with sam- 
pans and boats around her, stores going in, 
stevedores at work. Li Tock Lo attended 



to everything. Now Cairn was to take over 
— a queer sea-going, this! But, with the 
decking under his feet, he became a differ- 
ent man, alert and alive, all dreams de- 
parted, pictures forgotten. 

Mr. Drift was to come aboard an hour 
later with the Traceys. 

CAIRN pitched into details, getting the 
new crowd shaken down and every- 
thing shipshape. He stole time off for a 
visit to his cabin, under the bridge. There 
he emptied his pockets, glanced at the 
photograph, and put it down with a smile. 
Ali was stowing away his things, quietly 
efficient. Cairn saw the Irish whiskey and 
locked it into his private cupboard, and 
went back on deck. 

There he reached for his pipe, found it 
forgotten, and returned to his cabin. As 
he stepped in, he caught sight of Ali, hold- 
ing the picture of the girl, staring at it. The 
Malay whipped around, startled agitation 
in his scarred face. 

"Hello!" exclaimed Cairn. "Do you 
know the lady, Ali?" 

"No, tuan," humbly replied the little 
brown ban. "But her face is one in which 
there is no luck." And so saying, Ali left 
the cabin. 

No luck? Cairn looked at the picture, 
met the wide, lovely eyes, and thrilled to 
them anew. He understood what Ali had 
meant. This girl was too exquisite, too 
perfect a thing, to have any great luck. She 
would be looted, plundered, used, a tool in 
the rapacious hands of conquerors. 

"Probably she's Eurasian," thought 
Cairn. "A sultana in Coomassin, but in 
any white man's town a despised outcast. 
Well, by heaven " 

He checked his thoughts, shoved the pic- 
ture into a drawer, and went back on deck. 
He came slap on Mr. Andrews, the dark 
second officer, standing on the bridge in 
talk with two of the men from forward — 
in talk and laughter, as though some smutty 
jest had just been passed. Cairn halted. 

"I thought you had charge of stowing 
those stores, Mr- Andrews?" he said. "You 



20 



SHORT STORIES 



men, go below. Don't come on the bridge 
again except on duty." 

"What the hell!" Andrews swung 
around. "Don't be so high-faluting on this 
old bumboat. You ain't going to run this 
hooker navy style " 

Cairn hit him twice, and hard, and care- 
fully. Not at all like a gentleman, but like 
a man who meant to win his fight then and 
there. The two brown men disappeared 
like shadows. Mr. Andrews clamped both 
hands over his belly and leaned back against 
the bridge-house in agony, his dark eyes 
rolling. 

"Don't make mistakes again," said Cairn, 
his voice cold and cruel. "I'm running this 
hooker any style I damned please. You're 
taking orders, not giving them. Wipe that 
look off your face and get to work, or I'll 
murder you." 

Murder lay in the eyes of Andrew's, but 
it was downed by suffering ; he was all but 
paralyzed. He gasped out something and 
staggered away. Cairn went into the 
wheel house, examined his fine black eye, 
and fell to work with charts and pilot 
guide. 

MR. DRIFT brought the Traceys 
aboard. Cairn met them at the rail 
and was formally introduced. Tracey was 
pleasantly drunk and affable. He shook 
hands and hurried of? with Mr. Drift to 
look after the mountains of luggage stream- 
ing aboard. Miss Tracey moved aside with 
Cairn and spoke in a low, controlled voice. 

"You were sitting in the hotel this eve- 
ning, watching us. But you did not have 
that mouser at the time." 

Cairn chuckled. "Right. It's a beautiful 
shiner, eh? Yes, I wanted to see what 
our passengers looked like. What do you 
think of the ship?" 

"She's pretty dreadful," said Miss 
Tracey, with the usual English habit of 
speaking one's mind. "I don't understand 
why you should have such a ship." 

"Eh? Oh, is that base flattery? You 
don't know the truth. I'm lucky to have 
any ship at all, much less the Ta Ming. The 



'Great Enlightened' is one translation of the 
words. I think we'll need a lot of enlight- 
enment this voyage." 

"I think so, too," she answered calmly. 
"What is Mr. Vandunk like?" 

"Eh? But you know him " 

"We know only his agent, Mr. Drift." 

"That's queer. Well, I don't know Van- 
dunk either. He'll be aboard sometime in 
the morning, before we sail. May I show 
you your cabins?" 

He did so, called the Chinese steward, 
and put him at the lady's disposition. Then 
he bade his guests good night and got Mr. 
Drift to work. And Mr. Drift could work ; 
he immediately relieved Cairn of all details 
in an admirably brisk manner. 

It was after three in the morning when 
a launch brought Mynheer Vandunk 
aboard. Cairn, who had expected a brawny 
Hollander, was disappointed. The man 
who came over the rail was rather small, 
and enveloped in coat and shawl against 
the river mist, until only a pair of bright 
little eyes were visible. His handshake was 
limp. 

"Glad to meet you, Captain," he said 
in English. "I must get to my cabin and 
go over matters with Mr. Drift, if you'll 
allow. The moment we start I'll be awfully 
sick. I get seasick with the first wave. I 
just can't help it. I'll be sick for days and 
days. That's why I can't abide the sea, 
just can't abide it. Good morning." 

So this was Mynheer Vandunk! Cairri 
looked reflectively after him, then turned as 
a limp, senseless figure was lifted on deck 
under Mr. Drift's direction. 

"Who the devil's this?" Cairn demanded. 
The first officer winked. 

"Mynheer Vandunk's servant, sir — un- 
fortunately, he's a bit addicted to the poppy. 
A fine fellow in his right senses. I'll have 
him placed in Mynheer Vandunk's cabin; 
the master likes to have him close at hand." 

Cairn shrugged and sought the bridge. 
"Can't abide the sea!" Now that was a 
strange expression for any Dutchman to 
use, even if the speaker had been educate? 
in England or were half English. And it 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



21 



seemed odd that the Traceys should be 
taking a long trip with investment possi- 
bilities ahead, yet did not know Vandunk. 
Of course it was customary to deal through 
agents — and yet it seemed odd. 

"Something queer back of it all," Cairn 
told himself. "The Traceys aren't crooked. 
The young fellow's a fool for liquor, the 
girl's got the brains of the two. Still, 




there's something that doesn't show on the 
surface. I can feel it. So could Li Tock 
Lo. Something screwy." 

Cairn turned to the instructions given 
him by Li Tock Lo. These merely con- 
cerned the Coomassin anchorage, which 
was exposed and unsafe. In case weather 
came up while Cairn was awaiting the re- 
turn cargo, he was to run the ship into the 
river-mouth on the Celebes mainland, oppo- 
site the island. 

So, with the turn of the tide, the Ta 
Ming put out to sea, with ballast of sharp 
death and subtle destiny. 

II * 

STRANGE ! He doesin't look a bit like 
his picture," said Stella Tracey. Her 
brother turned to her in surprise. 
"Where'd you see his picture?" 
"In Surabaya. I showed it to you, but 
you'd been drinking and paid no heed. It 
was in that government handbook we 
looked over; it told how he meant to turn 
Coomassin into a model district. He has 
full powers there, you know." 

The speakers sat overlooking the after 
well-deck. Cairn had come aft for a look 



around, before going to the bridge. Stella 
Tracey had a book in her lap. Her brother 
was mouthing a pipe, with moody, frown- 
ing air. 

"Why did Vandunk send for you and 
not me ?" he demanded irritably. 

"Because I'm handling the business end, 
naturally." 

Cairn hesitated. So Vandunk didn't look 
like his pictures, eh? Interesting if true; 
but few people do look like their pictures. 

It was early afternoon. Rijstaafel, the 
enormous noonday meal of Java, was over. 
Cairn had everything running smoothly; 
the ship was pounding through a level, 
calm sea that was hardly ruffled by a 
breeze. 

"Good afternoon !" Cairn approached the 
two. "Everything all right?" 

"Oh, quite, thanks," said Tracey. "Sit 
down, do — take my chair." 

"Can't possibly, to my regret," said 
Cairn. "I'm due on the bridge. By the 
way, if either of you care to come up there 
at any time, barge ahead." 

Stella Tracey looked up at him, a pe- 
culiarly frank and level look. 

"Thanks. If you'll not sit down, I may 
be up presently. I'd like a word with you 
when you're time." 

"At your service," replied Cairn. "But 
I must run now. Come when you like." 

He touched his cap and went up the after 
bridge ladder. Andrews, who was on duty, 
met him with a nod that betrayed no 
rancor. 

"The steward was just here, sir, look- 
ing for you. Mynheer Vandunk would 
like a word with you when you've time to 
step down." 

"Right," said Cairn, and lit his pipe. The 
quartermaster at the wheel saluted him. A 
bony-faced brown man, a halfbreed of sorts 
on a Malay base. A good seaman. 

"I'm sorry about last night, sir," An- 
drews said unexpectedly. 

Cairn laughed. "Forget it, if you can 
also forget what caused it. How on earth 
did you and Mr. Drift happen to be hired 
by a Dutchman?" 



22 



SHORT STORIES 



"Can't say for Mr. Drift, sir. For my- 
self, I was out of a berth and got this one 
through knowing the Celebes coast a bit. 
And a clean ticket." 

"Lucky man," Cairn commented drily. 

FIVE minutes later, he saw Stella 
Tracey coming to the bridge. He was 
surprised by her speedy appearance, and 
surprised again when she halted at the lee- 
ward rail, as though to speak beyond hear- 
ing of anyone else. This, it proved, was 
her intent. 

"Did anything queer or extraordinary 
take place last night, Captain Cairn?" 

"Not to my knowledge." Cairn met her 
flashing blue eyes. "Why?" 
"No one fell overboard?" 
Cairn laughed. "I hope not! No, cer- 
tainly not. Please tell me why." 

"Then I must have been wrong." She 
hesitated, and continued. "You see, before 
daylight I was awakened. At first I thought 
by the movement of the ship at sea; but I 
heard voices next door. My cabin is next 
that of Mynheer Vandunk; next me, and 
farther aft, is that of my brother. The 
noise came from Vandunk's cabin. My 
port was open, and so, I imagine, was his." 
Cairn nodded. "What sort of noise?" 
"Excited voices. I could hear nothing 
of what was said; the tone was excited. 
I went to close my port. As I did so, I saw 
something fall. It was as though a man 
had jumped from the port next door. A 
voice said, 'He's gone.' That was all. I 
could not swear to it, mind. I was sleepy 
at the time. The whole thing must have 
been a mental error on my part." 

"Perhaps ; perhaps not," said Cairn. "It's 
good of you to have told me this, Miss 
Tracey. I'll look into it, without mention- 
ing you. There are all sorts of queer 
goings-on when a ship leaves port, so don't 
be uneasy." 

She laughed lightly. "Oh, I'm not! And 
I don't think your ship is half so bad as I 
did last night, really. By the way, have 
you ever been at Coomassin?" 
"Never. Nor you?" 



"No. My brother was there three or 
four years ago, when he first came out. He 
liked the place, and quite lost his heart to 
the sultan's daughter. I understand she's 
grown up now, and has become the sultana. 
Odd for a white girl, eh?" 

Cairn's heart skipped a beat. 

"White girl? But you said, the sultan's 
daughter " 

"Yes indeed. I believe she was the child 
of some trader who had no other family, 
and the sultan adopted her. Romantic, 
what?" 

Cairn nodded. "I suppose so. If true. 
In these waters, romance usually turns out 
to be pretty sordid stuff that won't bear 
looking into. A white girl — and a sultana? 
I'll believe that when I see it." 

She departed in frigid disapproval. Cairn 
cursed himself; what had impelled him to 
such savage words ? In no pleasant mood, 
he sought the cabin of Vandunk, and at 
his knock was told to enter. 

HE FOUND Vandunk seated before a 
table littered with papers from an 
open portfolio. Cairn's impression was one 
of astonishment. The man was small, 
rotund, beaming with merriment; little 
shoe-button eyes danced, his thick lips 
curved. He had a heavy cleft chin and 
high forehead, and was healthily bronzed. 
But there was no humor in his mirth. It 
was like a mask. 

"Well, well, Captain ! Seasick, says I ; 
and here you find me hard at work. Even 
keel and no swell, eh? Well, I'll no doubt 
be sick enough tonight. Sit down, sir. A 
cheroot? Prjme stuff, you'll find 'em." 

Cairn accepted a whitish cheroot of fine 
tobacco, and seated himself. The little 
shoe-button eyes darted over him in ap- 
praisal. 

"You speak English well," said Cairn. 

"And why not? First twenty years of 
my life were spent in Norfolk, Cap'n. All 
well aboard?" 

"Well enough," said Cairn, and lit his 
cheroot. "Who fell out of your port last 
night?" 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



23 



He meant to catch Vandunk off guard ; 
and did it. For a moment the man seemed 
to freeze in every line of his rotund face. 
But the black little eyes dilated until the 
whites showed clear around the pupils, and 
the thick lips hardened, and the limp hand 
on the desk made a jerky movement — as 
though to dive for a weapon. Then it 
stopped. 

"That's what I called you down about, 
Cap'n," Vandunk said slowly. "My serv- 
ant, poor devil! Out of his head with 
opium and bhang. He kicked up a bit of 
a row early this morning. You know how 
these Malays are, and the queer insanity 
that comes upon 'em at times, like running 
amok? This is the other kind, congenital. 
The poor devil was out of the port before 
I knew it, and gone." 

Cairn nodded silently. He remembered 
the limp figure that had come aboard. 

"I don't suppose you'll have to enter it 
in the log?" asked Vandunk. 

"Not unless you want it entered. It's 
none of my affair." 

Vandunk drew a deep breath, as of relief. 
"Right you are, Cap'n. You'll not lose by 
it, I promise you. I take it you know 
what's ahead of us?" 

"Vaguely. No details." 

Vandunk took a cheroot and bit at it, 
and relaxed in his seat. 

"I'm to take over Coomassin for the 
government. I want to ship out a good 
deal of stuff at once ; I'll have a cargo, or 
part of one, for you within a week, I hope. 
It may go to Sarawak or Macassar. We'll 
see about that. But there may be a bit 
of trouble. Two of our men, Mr. Andrews 
and Mr. Lochaber, were at 'the island at 
the time of the revolt and in fact were in 
the service of the sultan. They were, if I 
may so phrase it, agents of ours and in con- 
sequence the natives may remember the 
fact. They'll have to be careful about 
going ashore and so on. Don't give them 
any shore leave." 

"I see," said Cairn. "To put it bluntly, 
I presume they're considered as traitors." 

"That's it," and Vandunk gave him a 



narrow glance. "You don't know the 
island?" 

"Never heard of it before yesterday." 

"Very well." Vandunk gestured to the 
litter of papers. "I've everything here to 
put me in full authority. Your ship's un- 
der charter to me. You take orders only 
from me. Is that understood?" 

"Naturally," said Cairn. 

"Then we understand each other," Van- 
dunk said, and shook hands in dismissal. 
"I'll be a sick man tonight, I fear; looks 
like wind in the north. Well, good luck to 
you!" 

CAIRN sought his own cabin, with 
mixed feelings. Looks like wind in 
the north, eh? This man spoke like a sea- 
man. He was a Dutch colonial official, 
and unlike any of the ilk Cairn had ever 
met or seen. Yet a keen eye cast at those 
papers on the table had shown him that 
they were official papers. Yes, Vandunk 
was simply a queer sort of man, a square 
peg in a round hole as it were. 

Ali was straightening up the cabin. He 
had a bandage about his face, and com- 
plained that the knife-wound over his 
cheek was swollen and painful. Cairn made 
him take off the bandage. The wound 
looked perfectly all right, but Cairn dosed 
it with iodine none the less and Ali re- 
placed the bandage. This was just being 
finished when a knock sounded at the door, 
then Mr. Drift stuck his head in. His 
eyes rolled. 

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" he said sharply. "Oh, 
this is terrible, awful! Come along, sir. 
Mr. Lochaber's cabin — the chief's dead, 
sir." 

Cairn followed him on the jump. Loch- 
aber's cabin was just across the passage. 
Cairn entered behind the first officer, and 
Mr. Drift pointed. On the floor lay the fat 
old chief, dead, and dreadfully dead. He 
had been stabbed twice. 

With shaking fingers, Mr. Drift laid 
bare the wounds. They were neat and 
clean. No blood at all. Cairn knelt, then 
glanced up. Erh Tan stood in the open 



24 



SHORT STORIES 



doorway, and now came forward. The 
plump young Chinese showed no agitation, 
hut looked down at the dead man and the 
exposed wounds. His voice came calmly, 
clearly. 

"Strange! A kris meldla did this work." 

"What's that?" snapped Cairn. "What 
do you mean?" 

"Look at the wounds, Captain," the 
young Chinese said. "Each shows very 
clearly that it was done by a knife with a 
raised ridge down the center. This could 
only be a certain form of kris used by 
Malays of the highest rank." 

Mr. Drift felt the hands of the dead man. 

"Stiff," he muttered in agitation. "He 
didn't show up at noon mess — that's why I 
looked in on him, and found him. Must 
have been done when he went off watch at 
eight bells, noon. As soon as he came into 
his cabin. Captain Cairn, what can we do 
about this murder?" 

"Go take the deck and send Mr. An- 
drews here," said Cairn, rising. "Erh Tan, 
will you find the steward?" 

Cairn was alone with the dead man. He 
looked about; the cabin showed nothing 
of the least interest. A duffel-bag, half- 
emptied, a half filled locker, afforded no 
help. Then Mr. Andrews came in, and his 
dark features were gray. 

"Poor old devil !" he exclaimed. "Poor 
Tom Lochaber — — " 

"Get to work," said Cairn. "You and 
me both. Don't waste words; there's 
somebody aboard who murdered him. 
Why? We'll go through every cabin and 
every man until we find the weapon that 
did it. A kris with a ridge down the 
blade." 

Andrews stared at him, and fright shook 
the dark man. 

"A kris — ridged! A sultan's kris — no, 
no!" cried Andrews. "I tell you, it can't 
be, it can't! Not that, Cap'n. You don't 
know about it, but " 

"What's got into you?" snapped Cairn 
angrily. "You and the chief are old friends. 
Buck up! We'll find the murdering devil 
who did this. Go through every native 



aboard. Oh, there's the steward — come 
along ! Start with him. Take him for'ard 
and I'll be along as soon as I've spoken 
with the assistant engineer." 

Andrews gripped the yellow steward 
and they disappeared, leaving a wake of 
oaths and protesting squeaks. 

CAIRN looked around the cabin once 
more, went to the half-open bag, and 
dumped it. Shoes fell out, a Bible, a tat- 
tered copy of Burns' poems, half a dozen 
knick-knacks, and two new Webley auto- 
matics with a box of cartridges. Incredu- 
lous, Cairn picked them up, examined 
them. Never fired, apparently, but cleaned 
of all grease. Service pistols, new, fresh, 
unscratched, empty. And cartridges for 
them. Where would a fat old engineer get 
such things — in Java? What would he 
want with them? 

Cairn took them to his own cabin, locked 
them away, and sought the engine-room. 
The assistant, an empty-eyed fellow half 
Dutch and half native, gawked and blinked 
and knew nothing. Mynheer Lochaber had 
gone off watch. Trouble with anyone? 
Enemies? Not at all. The black gang all 
liked the old chief. 

Cairn learned nothing. He joined An- 
drews forward, where the crew were mus- 
tered. The outcome was very curious. The 
whereabouts of every man was definitely 
shown, at the change of watches. Even 
Ali, the Malay, had been lending the stew- 
ard a hand at the mess table. A search 
of the men's quarters showed no weapon 
of any kind. 

Andrews resumed his watch. Cairn 
went to the bridge and found three men in 
the pilot-house; Andrews, the quarter- 
master and Mynheer Vandunk. The latter 
was in a white fury. Cairn heard him curs- 
ing, but he checked himself as Cairn ap- 
peared. His little eyes were like blazing 
coals. 

"Who did this murder, Cap'n?" he shot- 
out. 

"Don't ask me," said Cairn wearily. 
"Every man for'ard has an alibi. Someone - 

10 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



25 



aft did it — or these men are good liars." 

"None of my men did it!" exclaimed 
Vandunk vehemently. His voice was deep, 
authoritative, charged with power. "Loch- 
aber was a favorite with the men. I've 
looked into the record of every man aboard. 
Perhaps you did it yourself?" 

"Are you drunk?" Cairn surveyed him 
with quick appraisal. 

"I beg your pardon," said Vandunk. 
"I'm a bit worked up — Lochaber was an 
old friend. I'm terribly agitated. Oh, my 
stomach ! I must get back to my cabin. I 
can't stand the motion up here on the 
bridge " 

He departed hastily. Andrews watched 
Cairn with smoldering gaze, and spoke. 

"I think he's had a bit to drink, sir. Most 
upset, he was. I don't mind saying it got 
me a bit, too. The chief and I have been 
places together." 

"So Vandunk told me," Cairn said drily. 
"Enter it up in the log. We'll have the 
burial at sunset." 

To the surprise of Cairn, young Tracey 
eagerly volunteered to act as assistant engi- 
neer, the half-blood assistant becoming 
chief. Tracey knew engines, looked on it 
as a distinct lark, and threw himself into 
the job with a will. 

Mr. Drift and Cairn searched everything 
aft, from captain's cabin to cook's galley, 
but no kris or knife with a ridged blade was 
turned up. The rifles and pistols that had 
been put aboard, Cairn kept under lock and 
key ; he said nothing of the two new Web- 
leys reposing in his private locker. 

NEXT morning, feeling the swell of the 
Straits of Macassar, the To Ming was 
wallowing through a heavy quartering sea. 
Both the Traceys were seasick and, the 
steward being busy, AH took his place at 
breakfast. Mr. Drift and Cairn were at 
the table together, then the chief officer 
departed and Andrews took his place, with 
a glance at the little brown man, whose face 
was still bandaged. 

. "Can't get it out of my head that I've 
seen you before, Ali," said Andrews. 



"Macassar, perhaps? Or aboard some 
craft?" 

"No , tuan," Ali responded in his humble 
way. "If I had ever seen the tuan before, 
I would not forget him. Ya Allah! The 
slave does not forget the great ones whom 
he has served." 

"Huh! I'll remember sooner or later," 
said Andrews. "Well, Cap'n, Mr. Tracey 
is a bit of all right. Sick as a dog, but 
sticking to his job. We'll manage." 

Cairn happened to look up, caught a 
glance that Ali threw at the second mate, 
and was momentarily startled. The gleam 
and glitter in Ali's eyes, the flashing scorn 
and even hatred — no, he must have misread 
the look. It was gone instantly. Perhaps 
Ali resented having to act as steward, for 
some of these Malays were devilish touchy. 

Later, Cairn looked up Erh Tan and 
found the plump young fellow terribly 
gripped by seasickness. The ship was roll- 




ing like a pig. Toward noon, Cairn went 
to the bridge, and while awaiting Mr. Drift 
to take the noon sights, fell into talk with 
Andrews. He had put the second officer 
down as a thorough bad one, but he got a 
bit of a surprise. 

"Vandunk tells me you've been at Coo- 
massin. I've heard stories about the sultan 
there having an adopted daughter, a white 
girl. Any truth in the yarn?" 

"Yes," said Andrews, and his hard face 
softened. "Amina, her name was. The 
most beautiful creature ever lived, Cap'n ; a 
living angel, that girl was. I reckon she 
never had a bad thought, even — think me 
a damn fool, I s'pose?" 



26 



SHORT STORIES 



"No," said Cairn softly. "Tell me more 
about her." 

"Ain't much to tell. She was a trader's 
daughter. The old sultan adopted her. 
She's got his throne now. I s'pose the 
Dutch will marry her off to some official 
and make sure of Coomassin. Everybody 
loved her — in a right way, mind you. Why, 
you take even me ! I'd ha' gone into hell 
for her. And old Lochaber, who had four 
native women then, he'd get mighty 
ashamed if Amina even looked his way. 
Well, some women are like that. Have a 
queer effect on you." 

Mr. Drift appeared with his instruments, 
and the conversation ended. 

The noon meal was a sea snack and no 
mistake, with everything rolling great guns 
and the Chinese steward hard put to it 
at times to keep right side up. Stella 
Tracey showed up, white but brave, to cope 
with tea and toast. 

The steward set a huge plate of curry 
before Cairn, especially decorated for him 
by the cook — shrimp, fish, meat, rice, ar- 
ranged in fantastic manner. There was 
some laughter, Mr. Drift complaining 
loudly that nobody bothered to fix his plate 
navy style. Cairn attacked the dish with a 
will, and was part way through it when Ali 
appeared suddenly. 

"Tuan kapitan! Mr. Ehr Tan wants 
you at once. He says he is dying and must 
see you " 

"Dying?" Cairn started up. "What's 
happened?" 

"Nothing, tuan. He is seasick." 

Cairn broke into a laugh. "All right, I'll 
come along and reassure him. Cover my 
plate and keep it warm, steward." 

HE STARTED for Erh Tan's cabin, 
only to find Ali suddenly gripping his 
arm, looking into his face with blazing 
eyes. 

"It was a lie, tuan. Go quickly, quickly ! 
Your own cabin. Be sick. I came into 
the galley and saw the cook put a white 
powder into your curry. Poison. Yai 
Allah ! There is no time to lose." 



Poison — it was incredible ! But the air, 
the suddenly vigorous tone of Ali, smashed 
the fact home. White powder? It might 
be some mistake or it might not. 

Cairn went for his cabin with a rush. He 
got rid of his meal ; then, white and shaken, 
he questioned Ali. The Malay really knew 
nothing, had merely seen the cook dosing 
the plate of curry with a white powder, and 
had jumped to conclusions. Cairn was 
tempted to anger, but repressed the feel- 
ing ; such loyalty was too rare to be jeop- 
ardized. 

He went back to the mess cabin and 
found only Miss Tracey there, lingering 
over her tea. Cairn told the steward to 
bring the cook at once. 

The cook arrived. He was a lean, pock- 
marked fellow, with Malay features and 
oblique Chinese eyes. Cairn addressed him 
in English. 

"The curry you made for me is excellent. 
I desire to compliment you. Unfortunately, 
my hunger does not permit me to eat so 
large an amount, therefore, as a mark of 
my favor, I desire you to finish the plate. 
Give it to him, steward." 

The cook took the plate, and his face as- 
sumed a grayish look. 

"Captain, no can do," he said in a thin 
voice. "Seasick. Velly sick. No can eat; 
all come topside quick. Velly solly." 

Cairn smiled grimly. "Eat it, or I'll call 
two men to hold you and have it crammed 
down your throat. Eat it!" 

"Why, Captain Cairn!" exclaimed the 
girl quickly. "You can see he's desperately 
ill — he can't possibly eat that curry! The 
very sight of it " 

The cook's eyes darted about. Then, 
like a flash, he was at the nearest port. 
With one hand he unscrewed it, and before 
Cairn could grab him, he had the thick 
glass open — and the plate went flying out. 
Then he crumpled in Cairn's hands, and 
made no resistance. 

"Get the off watch quartermaster and 
two men," snapped Cairn at the steward. - 

Five minutes later, the cook was taken 
away to be laid in irons, and Cairn went 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



27 



to the galley. Miss Tracey, wondering 
and a little angry because he ignored her, 
followed him. In the galley, Cairn turned 
on her. 

"This is a case of poisoning, since you've 
got to know. Now keep quiet." 

Presently he had what he sought; a 
folded paper such as chemists use, crum- 
pled in one corner. Cairn opened it up. A 
few white grains of powder showed. He 
tasted them and made a wry grimace. Al- 
ready he knew that the warning had come 
barely in time ; a feeling of constriction was 
creeping through arms and legs, and his 
heart was pounding. 

"Strychnine," he said curtly. "Miss 
Tracey, will you be good enough to find 
Mr. Drift — get him to my cabin at once. I 
didn't get enough of it to kill, but I may 
be knocked out for a bit. Hurry." 

Once in his own cabin, he got into pa- 
jamas, took out one of the Webleys, loaded 
it, and took it to bed with him. AH did 
not appear. When Mr. Drift showed up, 
Cairn regarded him grimly. 

"Take charge. Sweat that cook ; try and 
make him talk. I got rid of the poison in 
time, but the paralysis has got me. I'll be 
an hour or two before I can do anything. 
Heart's going hard." 

Mr. Drift disappeared briskly. Then 
Cairn found Stella Tracey sitting beside 
him. Cool, capable, she silenced his pro- 
tests. 

"I've talked with Ali. Now keep quiet, 
Cap'n. Let me make things easy for you ; 
best to let it wear off. I'm not a bad 
nurse, really." 

CAIRN drifted. He would be all right 
later, and knew it ; but the constriction 
was hard to bear. Her deft ministrations, 
her tenderness, astonished and softened 
him. She was a very beautiful woman, was 
Stella Tracey. 

His brain was clear enough on certain 
subjects, but he could talk only with diffi- 
culty. She was making him drink quanti- 
ties of hot black coffee all the time. She 
did the talking herself; told him a lot about 

.10 



herself, even about the man over in Kedah," 
in the civil service, to whom she was en- 
gaged. She talked rapidly, trying to keep 
his mind occupied. Why anyone would try 
to poison the captain of the Ta Ming was a 
mystery, and she said so. 

"More'n one mystery here," mumbled 
Cairn. "All this crowd aboard speaks Eng- 
lish. Why? Most of the men, too. All 
picked men. Vandunk picked the cook." 

"Well, don't think about it," she said. 
"Any signs of convulsions?" 

"Nope. Just the first stage; nothing 
worse ahead," and Cairn Jaughed. "Saw a 
chap die of strychnine once, and it's damned 
unpleasant. Sorry — my rudeness. You're 
an angel." 

"Oh, you're not a bad sort !" she replied 
brightly. "Tell me something — I saw this 
on the shelf yonder," and she held up the 
photograph of Amina. "A friend of yours? 
I'm interested, because I never saw a more 
lovely face in all my life. Who is she, if 
I may ask?" 

"Not sure myself," Cairn said. "Took 
it away from a couple of chaps — in Reilly's 
Bar, in Surabaya. They said it was Amina, 
the Coomassin girl we were talking about — 
the other day. Not sure " 

Presently Erh Tan appeared in the door- 
way. He stayed only a moment, inquired 
very politely after Cairn, and went his way. 

Ali showed up. His bandage was gone 
now, and Cairn noted that the wound on 
his cheek was healing well. He squatted 
in one corner, in the respectful style of 
Malays, and said little. 

Cairn was beginning to feel more like 
himself; the cold sweat was passing, and 
the constriction, and the slight paralysis 
was also departing. Then, suddenly, Mr. 
Drift walked in and shut the door. He 
removed his cap, and wiped his forehead. 

"Blast it ! I've had one hell of a time — 
excuse me, miss. Terrible, Cap'n, but there 
warn't no 'elp for it. I fair 'ad to shoot the 
blighter. Come at me with a knife, he did. 
Pulled it out of behind his neck." 

Cairn came to one elbow. "Who the 
devil are you talking about?" 



28 



SHORT STORIES 



"That ruddy cook, sir." The brisk Mr. 
Drift was agitated and earnest. "I was 
a-hauling of 'im over the coals when he 
done it. Lucky I 'ad my gun at hand, and 
let 'im have it. But it fair broke me up; 
put me all in a shake." 

"Did you get any information out of 
him?" demanded Cairn. "Any reason for 
having poisoned me?" 

"Not a smell, sir. It was me what 
signed 'im on, too ; best of credentials and 
references. He'd been assistant cook in 
one o' them Bombay boats." Mr. Drift 
wiped his brow again. "I've put the stew- 
ard on to the galley job, sir, and it struck 
me that if this here Malay of yours would 
act as steward " 

"That's for him to say. What about it, 
AH?" 

ALI, squatting in the corner, regarded 
them with a grim smile, an ironic 
smile, a smile proud and scornful at once. 
Then it was gone. 

"What else can I do?" he said with a 
shrug. "Allah gives one man the power 
to order, another the faculty of obedience. 
I serve you, tuan." 

"Good. Then that's arranged," said Mr. 
Drift with relief. "Now I'll 'ave to look up 
Mr. Andrews, blast him! He should be 
on the bridge, but he ain't. I'll just take 
a look in his cabin. Feeling better, sir?" 

"Quite," Cairn rejoined. "I'm pretty 
much myself." 

Mr. Drift departed briskly. Cairn looked 
at the little brown man. 

"Ali, I'm in your debt; I don't forget 
debts. Thanks to you, I'm alive. And 
thanks to Miss Tracey, here, I'm quite all 
right again. By the way, AH, have you 
any idea why that rascal wanted to kill 
me?" 

1 "None, tuan," returned the Malay, re- 
arranging his sarong as he squatted. "But 
he would certainly have talked, had he lived 
to talk." 

"What do you mean by that?" demanded 
Stella Tracey suddenly, in Malay. "What 
is in your mind? You are no man of 



low caste; you are a raja at least, a man 
of some rank. What do your words mean?" 

Ali looked blank. "Once I was a raja, 
yes; now I am a servant, by the will of 
Allah. Nothing was in my mind. The 
words were idle." 

The door burst open. 

"My God!" Mr. Drift came stumbling 
into the room, catching at the door as the 
ship rolled. He was livid, his eyes bulging. 
"My God! Poor Andrews has got it — 
just like the chief — laying in 'is cabin all 
blood, and dead, stone dead. Just like the 
chief, sir — stabbed twice " 

Cairn was out of bed, and caught up the 
pistol as his feet touched the floor. 

Ill 

DEATH hovered above the Ta Ming 
as she ploughed the eastern seas, and 
not death alone, but murder. It filled her 
like a living presence. Murder, stark and 
terrible in the sunlight, dread and whisper- 
ing under the stars. 

The utterly baffling mystery of it was 
horrible. Officers and men — all hands were 
jerky, eyes darting over shoulders, dark 
places shunned, cabin doors locked and 
ports screwed shut. A stiff sea was run* 
ning, so that the clumsy little hooker kept 
rolling savagely, as though dodging the 
finger of deatth that reached into her vitals. 

A couple of days put Cairn on his feet, 
as well as ever in body, but mentally aghast 
before the undeniable facts that faced him. 
Time had elapsed, giving him full oppor- 
tunity to run down every clue and pin the 
murder upon the right man — and it was 
impossible. The murderer was by far too 
clever. 

Andrews had not been long dead when 
Mr. Drift found him; but the time of his 
death could not be approximated. He, like 
Lochaber, had been stabbed twice by a 
kris with ridged blade. The same weapon, 
its mark clearly defined. 

"I've run down nothing," said Cairn to 
Stella Tracey. She had come up to the 
bridge during his afternoon watch. They 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



29 



stood at the lee rail together, beyond hear- 
ing of the quartermaster in the house. 

"About three persons I'm absolutely 
sure. One's the cook, because he had just 
been shot. You and I were together in my 
cabin. Everybody else aboard is covered 
from suspicion — but someone's a liar. Van- 
dunk was seasick, is still confined to his 
cabin. Erh Tan is about today, for the first 
time. He was certainly sick. Your brother 
was in the engine-room at the time; the 
engineer was asleep in his own cabin and 
was wakened by the noise and confusion. 
The steward had just taken over the duties 
of cook and was aft in the galley. None of 
the men from for'ard were in or about the 
'midships cabins. That's the layout; and 
somebody's a liar. No telling who it is, 
though. Not a shadow of suspicion." 

"Where was Ali? Oh, yes ; he was with 
us." 

"Not all the time. But he has no weapon 
of any kind. Then, we don't know exactly 
when Andrews was murdered, so we can't 
definitely pin anyone down to the moment. 
The one sure thing is that everybody 
aboard is in a flutter." 

"Vandunk had me come to his cabin," 
she said, hesitant. "This morning. He 
questioned me, very insistently, as though 
he suspected you might have done it." 

Cairn laughed. "I more than half sus- 
pect he might have done it. Anyone might 
have ! Did he look pretty green in the face ?" 

"He didn't look ill at all," she said. "He 
was well wrapped up, of course." 

"Have you, personally, any suspicion of 
the faintest sort?" 

"No," she answered in her cool way. 
"Not the least." 

"Where'd you learn to speak Malay so 
well?" 

"We've been out here a year, you know. 
And immediately we resolved to come out, 
we pitched in to learn it. Everyone does. 
It's an easy language."- 

I 

CAIRN nodded. One of the seamen, a 
Portuguese halfcaste named Souza, 
came up the ladder and saluted. Mynheer 



Vandunk would like to see the captain. 

"I'm on duty until eight bells," said 
Cairn. "What were you doing around the 
cabins ?" 

"Me and Hilo Tom were put on brass 
polishing, sir. You done it." 

"Right. Tell Mr. Vandunk I'll see him 
at eight bells." The man went back, and 
Cairn turned to Stella Tracey. "Wouldn't 
you feel better if you had a pistol about 
your cabin? You look to me like the sort 
of girl who could use a gun." 

"Thanks, I am, and I have," she said, 
laughing. "Mr. Drift insisted that I should 
bring one along ; he gave me one in Sura- 
baya. A Webley. He said that it was by 
Mr. Vandunk's orders." 

"Eh?" Cairn's gray eyes glittered sud- 
denly. "Would you mind getting it and 
letting me have a look at it?" 

"Gladly." 

She went below, to return with a hand- 
bag in which the pistol lay. Cairn gave it 
a short examination, beyond sight of the 
helmsman. Brand new, never used, same 
calibre, fully loaded. He replaced it in the 
handbag, with a nod. 

"Thank you. A good gun. Hello! So 
he's come to me, eh?" 

Mynheer Vandunk, shawl about his neck, 
came nimbly up the ladder. He bowed and 
removed his hat momentarily to the girl, 
then gave Cairn a look. 

"Can we step into the house for a mo- 
ment and talk?" he said. 

"If you like. No, don't go, Miss Tracey," 
Cairn replied. "We may need your cool 
head to solve some of our problems. I'm 
sure Mynheer Vandunk agrees." 

Vandunk assented. As the girl had said, 
he did not look at all ill. Once shut away 
from the wind, with a mere shrug at the 
presence of the Malay quartermaster, Van- 
dunk faced Cairn brusquely. 

"I'm not satisfied about these murders, 
Cap'n. As you know, this crew was hand- 
picked. None of our men could possibly 
have killed Lochaber and Andrews. That 
puts it squarely up to anyone outside our 



3Q 



SHORT STORIES 



men. You yourself, your Malay servant, 
that plump Chinese supercargo " 

"And Miss Tracey and her brother," put 
in Cairn. "Dead right, Vandunk, from one 
viewpoint. We'll come back to that in a 
minute. First, since the cook was your 
man and tried to murder me, what have 
you to say about it?" 

Vandunk's little shoe-button eyes glit- 
tered. "Do you dare accuse me?" 

"Certainly. I accuse anyone. Mr. Drift 
shot the cook. Two of the men were on the 
spot. Both swore that the cook attacked 
Mr. Drift. Let that pass. It was Mr. 
Drift who found Andrews murdered. 




Maybe he murdered him and then came to 
give the alarm. I don't think so, mind; 
I say, it's possible. You might have done 
it. You've been laid up, but you look 
devilish healthy. You may as well face the 
possibilities all around." 

Vandunk bit at a cheroot, then smiled 
slowly. 

"I see. You're nobody's fool, Cap'n. I 
stick to it that no one in our crowd com- 
mitted those murders. I've done a bit of 
investigation. There's no such knife 
aboard — no kris melala. Either it was flung 
overboard, or it's hidden away. And I've 
checked something else. Lochaber and 
Andrews, as I told you, were at Coomas- 
sin. Possibly they were killed because of 
that fact — because of their treachery, as the 
natives there called it." 

"More than likely; that would explain 
why Andrews was so startled, even afraid," 
said Cairn. "And that puts it up to one of 
your own men. Ali tells me he was never 



there in his life, told me so when I first 
engaged him. Some one of your own 
crowd up for'ard has put it over on you, 
Vandunk." 

Vandunk was staggered. He scowled 
thoughtfully and then nodded. 

"Possibly you've hit it. Frankly, I did 
think at first you were the killer." 

"And I thought you might be; I still 
think so," said Cairn bluntly. "Not that I 
believe you Were. I say, it's possible." 

MISS TRACEY broke in upon the 
threatening silence with a bright 

laugh. 

"I'll tell you what it all sounds like," 
she said cheerfully. "I've heard a good 
deal of talk at Singapore about the piracy 
up the coast. This sounds like one of the 
mysterious jobs pulled off by that man they 
call the Devil's Bosun! They say he has 
confederates aboard ships, you know, who 
murder the officers at the proper time." 

Vandunk bit at his cheroot. His thick 
lips curved, merriment came back into his 
rather broad features — merriment, amuse- 
ment that was a mask, but not humor. 

"The Devil's Bosun!" he repeated, with 
a chuckle. "My dear Miss Tracey, that 
is all rot, really. Legend gets built up 
around some rascally pirate ; he is given all 
sorts of attributes; every crime committed 
in the seven seas is laid at his door. As a 
matter of fact, no intelligent or even shrewd 
man would be a pirate, in this day of radio 
and sea-police. He couldn't get away with 
it." 

"The Devil's Bosun does," said the girl. 
Vandunk shrugged. 

"Nonsense; forgive me, but it is non- 
sense. Look at those pirates up around 
Bias Bay, within sight of Hongkong! Some 
genius was supposed to be at their head. 
When they were broken up, nothing of the 
sort was found. The same in this case. We 
have a number of piracies up the Celebes 
coast, and people jump to the conclusion 
that some person has contrived them all. 
No, no; it's quite unlikely. By the way, 
Cap'n, what do you know about this serv- 

10 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



3i 



ant of yours? This Ali? Been with you 
long?" 

"No," said Cairn. "He had a recom- 
mendation from Li Tock Lo in person ; he 
used to be a Malay trader who had a ship 
of his own. He's a raja. That is, of good 
blood, a noble as opposed to a peasant. I 
think he's faithful. I know he has no 
weapon of any kind. That's really about 
all I know of him." 

Vandunk nodded. "That's enough. 
Where is he from?" 

"Kelantan, in the Malay States." 

"I'm satisfied, then." Vandunk lit his 
cheroot. "We've checked up on every one 
of our men aboard ; as you say, somebody's 
lying. Mr. Drift tells me that Erh Tan 
is a relative of Li Tock Lo. That rules 
him out. Looks like a plump young capon ; 
not the sort to use a knife so well. We're 
blocked, that's all." 

"There still remains the question of why 
your cook tried to poison me." 

"I know. I can't explain that." Van- 
dunk turned to Cairn, spreading out his 
hands. Earnestness suddenly sat in his 
face, his voice. "Cap'n, we're blocked; 
I can say no more. I'd give five thousand 
guilders, gold, if I could find the murderer 
of our two officers. I've spread that offer 
among the crew. Every man aboard is on 
the alert this moment." 

Cairn stiffened. "Not your place to 
make the offer. You should have sug- 
gested it to me. I'm the captain aboard 
here, not you. You're here by sufferance." 

"Eh?" exclaimed Vandunk. "I've chart- 
ered this ship, sir !" 

"That has nothing to do with it. In 
future, remember the fact." Cairn smiled, 
and removed the offense of the words. 
The quartermaster turned to him and he 
nodded. Eight bells ; four o'clock. "Now, 
mynheer, suppose we all have a regular 
English afternoon tea, eh? Mr. Drift will 
be up in a minute. Here he comes now. 
You'll join us, Miss Tracey? I'll have 
your brother as well " 

Vandunk assented. With the cheroot 
so 



between his teeth, he could not very well 
claim illness. 

Ali was sent for tea. Tracey joined 
them in the mess cabin, as soon as he had 
removed the marks of his labor ; he grinned 
boyishly, was eager about his job. Van- 
dunk threw off his wraps, and Stella 
Tracey soon had him talking. He revealed 
himself as a man of wide travel and in- 
formation; but Cairn, who was watching 
him with attention, divined that he kept 
a continual restraint upon himself. Van- 
dunk said frankly that he detested the sea, 
and once he reached Coomassin intended 
to stay there several years. He was, Cairn 
judged, a man of forty-five. 

"Have you any plans in regard to the 
sultana there?" asked Stella Tracey. "I 
understand you have entire authority over 
the island." 

VANDUNK assented. "Plans? No," 
he said slowly. "No. I shall act for 
the best interests of the island, of course. 
An unfortunate situation, with that woman 
of white blood. It may be that a native 
sultan would be better regarded by the 
people." 

"But," put in Tracey, "I thought she 
was the heiress of the former sultan?" 

Vandunk waved his cheroot and smiled. 
"Oh, yes; however, I shall be guided by 
the resident there. It is impossible to pre- 
dict conditions." 

Cairn decided definitely that he did not 
like Mynheer Vandunk. The man was 
very shrewd, far more so than he appeared 
on the surface. 

Later, when Ali was in his room, Cairn 
told the Malay about Lochaber and An- 
drews having been at Coomassin previ- 
ously, and suggested that this might in 
some way lie behind their killing. 

"That is ;true, tuan," said Ali reflec- 
tively. "I heard two of the men forward 
talking about it. It seems that those white 
men betrayed the sultan to the Dutch, al- 
though they had taken his salt and were 
in his service. It would not be strange 
if someone aboard here had killed them 



32 



SHORT STORIES 



for that reason. Shall I try to find if any 
of the Malays forward come from those 
parts?" 

"If you can find out, do so," Cairn said. 
"And I'd give a good deal to learn why 
the cook tried to poison me." 

AH took from his pouch a bit of leaf- 
wrapped betel paste, and mouthed it. 

"Allah alone knows the truth, tuan! I 
have heard men talk about the time when 
Tuan Drift will be captain." 

Cairn whistled. So the crew expected 
that Drift would be captain! 

"And," went on Ali slowly, "at that time 
there will be many women aboard." 

"Interesting," said Cairn drily. "Keep 
your ears open." 

He went to the cabin of Erh Tan, 
knocked, and entered. The plump young 
yellow man was sitting up, still very pallid, 
but still very calm. Politeness over, Cairn 
spoke abruptly. 

"Some of the crew seem to think that 
Mr. Drift will be captain before long. One 
attempt has been made to poison me. Two 
of the officers have been murdered. Now, 
if you have any suspicions, speculations, or 
guesses, I'd like to hear 'em." 

Erh Tan smiled faintly. 

"Captain Cairn, you think because I am 
Chinese, maybe I guess something. You 
white men all think the Oriental people are 
very deep and shrewd. That is not so. 
We think differently, but we are far less 
shrewd than you. We are not deep and 
complex. Maybe we start a ball rolling, 
and that is all; we cannot tell where it 
will roll. Mynheer Vandunk hired this 
ship through his agent. Cash was paid, 
much cash. It is agreed that when cargo 
is handled, it is handled through the agents 
and associates of Li Tock Lo, in any port. 
I look after such interests. You look after 
the ship. It is very simple." 

"It's too damned simple," Cairn said. 
"Suppose you and I were killed?" 

"That would not matter. The ship is 
insured. She is old and has little value. 
No one would kill us in order to steal her. 
But how can I tell? A man walking in a 



fog has no advantage over a blind man." 

No help here. The young fellow was a 
mass of sluggish inertia, at this moment 
anyhow. And yet he had suggested that 
Lochaber's wounds had been made by a 
certain kind of kris — an odd thing for a 
Straits Chinese living in Java to know. 

"Who ever told you," asked Cairn, 
"what a kris melala was like?" 

Erh Tan stared at him for a moment, 
then smiled again. 

"You think it strange that I should 
know, eh? Well, that is natural. About 
a week ago I was dining with my relative 
Li Tock Lo. He had upon his desk a 
Malay kris. The handle was made from 
old yellow ivory, and the blade was inlaid 
with gold. Like that of any kris, the blade 
was wavy like a flame, but unlike most, it 
had a heavy ridge in the center, on either 
side of the blade. My honorable relative 
told me that this kind of kris was called 
melala and was only carried by chiefs, 
among the barbarians. I remembered it. 
When I saw the body of the engineer, the 
shape of the wounds showed they had been 
made by a similar weapon." 

That was all ; simple, naive, candid. No 
deep and crafty brain here. This brain, 
like its body, was plump and soft. Still, 
it had its points; it had remembered and 
spoken at the right moment. Erh Tan 
was no fool, but he was no very crafty 
Oriental, either. 

CAIRN went away thoughtfully. 
"Maybe we start a ball rolling, and 
that is all." The plump supercargo had 
expressed a profound truth there. But 
where, in this business, had anyone except 
Vandunk started a ball rolling? No- 
where, apparently. 

There remained the little matter of the 
Webleys, and Cairn doggedly determined 
to go after this. When Mr. Drift relieved 
him at four the next morning, Cairn for a 
moment discussed the course, then beck- 
oned Mr. Drift out to the lee of the bridge 
house. There was only a faint breeze, 
with the glass dropping fast and some 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



33 



heavy weather ahead before they sighted 
Celebes. 

"I suppose you haven't a gun, Mr. 
Drift?" asked Cairn. 

"Aye, sir, that I have," was the prompt 
response. Mr. Drift, with surprising 
rapidity, slipped an automatic from an arm- 
pit holster. Cairn took it, moved forward 
into the light for a moment, then returned 
to the other man, but kept the gun. 

"The same, I see. How did you happen 
to give Lochaber two instead of one?" 

"Two?" In the darkness, the brisk 
mate caught his breath. "Why, sir " 

"You wouldn't intimate that Lochaber 
lied to me about it?" Cairn said grimly. 

"Oh, no, sir, not for a moment! You 
see, now, this was the way of it." Drift 
was evidently sparring for thought. "I 
got 'im one, but he didn't like the hang 
of it. Very particular, the old chief was, 
about such things. So I got him another 
that he liked better. That's how it was, 
Cap'n. You see, I'd 'ad a chance to pick 
up a couple fairish cheap in Surabaya." 

"I see," Cairn said, and clicked off the 
safety catch of the gun in his hand. He 
shoved it suddenly against the other man. 
"Hands up, Drift! You'll lie your way 
to the gallows yet, if you don't watch out. 
You found Lochaber dead ; you found An- 
drews dead. You've lied like hell about 
these Webleys " 

Mr. Drift was pressing back against the 
iron rail, his hands lifted. 

"Good God, sir, you can't be saying I 
done it!" broke out his voice in a wail of 
acute horror. "Why, they was my friends, 
shipmates! I couldn't ha' done it, sir. 
Mr. Vandunk knows bloody well I 
couldn't." 

"How does he know it?" snapped Cairn. 
"Why, sir, it — it was me as got 'em to 
sign on!" 

"Then Andrews lied when he said that 
Vandunk signed him and Lochaber on." 

"I dunno, I dunno," cried Mr. Drift in 
desperate panic. "The three of us 'ad to 
get berths. I sent 'em to Vandunk, then 



'e made me 'is agent, and that's the God's 
truth of it." 

"You lie like hell," Cairn said grimly, 
and paused. "But I don't believe you're 
a murderer. I don't care a hang who 
signed you on. Let's have the truth about 
all these brand new Webley pistols you 
put aboard. Out with it, or I'll clap you 
into irons on a murder charge and you 
can talk to an Admiralty court." 

In the darkness his voice was like the 
ring of steel. Then another voice broke 
in. Cairn started, and turned to see the 
figure of Vandunk approaching past the 
door of the pilot-house. 

"What's all this, Cap'n? This talk about 
pistols — good heavens! Is that a pistol in 
your hand?" 

"Mr. Drift has brought a number of 
Webley pistols aboard, and I want an ex- 
planation," said Cairn. "He's lied about 
it. Either he talks turkey, or I'll put him 
in irons for the murder of Andrews and 
Lochaber." 

Vandunk halted. His voice rolled out 
silkily, calmly, with authority. 

"That's absurd, Cap'n ; they were friends 
for two or three years, all three of them. 
I looked them up. As for the pistols, I 
can explain that. I strictly ordered Mr. 
Drift to say nothing about it to a soul. 
I picked up a dozen new Webleys in Ba- 
tavia and sent them to Mr. Drift, asking 
him to distribute them among our officers 
and to the Traceys as well. I thought we 
should have the officers armed. Later on, 
Mr. Drift wrote me that Li Tock Lo was 
sending arms aboard, so I knew my pre- 
cautions were useless." 

Cairn replaced the safety catch and 
handed the gun to the mate. 

"You have the bridge, mister; go 
ahead," he observed. "And next time you 
lie to me, heaven help you! There'll be 
no excuse." 

Mr. Drift ducked into the wheelhouse. 
Vandunk spoke with asperity. 

"You appear jealous of your authority , 
Cap'n Cairn. I don't like it by half." 

"I don't give a damn what you like," 



34 



SHORT STORIES 



Cairn said quietly. "Aboard this ship, 
just one man gives orders, one man's re- 
sponsible, one man is supreme. You 
should realize the fact, and not act as 
though you were also in command aboard 
here. Mr. Drift may have been your agent 
ashore. Here, he obeys me and no one 
else." 

Vandunk sighed, laughed, and passed his 
arm in that of Cairn. 

"You're right, Cap'n. I do forget that 
my authority doesn't extend here ; the fault 
is mine. Come below and have a glass 
of Hollands with me." 

"Thank you," Cairn replied, "but I don't 
drink until we're lying at Coomassin." 

Mynheer Vandunk sighed again. "Cap'n, 
you're a man after my own heart, but a 
trifle apt to flare up. I'd like to speak 
honestly with you, as man to man. I'd 
like you to hear me out, keep yourself 
under control, remember that I'm speaking 
to you as a friend, and allow me to speak 
with the frankness of a friend. Yes or 
no?" 

Cairn sensed a vibrance from the man, 
a subtle blend of power and character, a 
sober warning of something tremendously 
important in the wind. His dislike died 
out. He answered quietly. 

"Very well. I'm not always so hasty 
as you seem to think." 

"I know that, Cap'n. I like you be- 
cause you don't apologize or excuse your 
words or actions. You're more or less un- 
nerved by these murders. So am I. The 
death of Lochaber and Andrews gave me 
a frightful shock, more so than you can 
realize." 

Vandunk was speaking the truth; his 
voice rang with it. 

"Miss Tracey," he went on, "mentioned 
to me the photograph in your cabin of the 
Sultana Amina, as she is called. I may 
assume that you think the young woman 
very lovely, in which you are correct." 

"The picture is, at all events," said Cairn 
'cautiously. 

"Yes. Men don't keep a picture around 



unless they're moved by it. Now, when 
I was so careful about a crew for this 
ship, don't you suppose I was equally 
careful about the master? I was, Mr. 
Cairn. I looked him up and down, I 
promise you." 

Cairn felt a tingle of warning. He 
could guess what was coming. 

"I know," resumed Vandunk, "that 
you've been with this line for three years ; 
that you obtained your tickets very rap- 
idly; that your Board of Trade license is 
correct — all under the name of Cairn. I 
may have heard other things, but I speak 
only of what I know." 

"Meaning what?" asked Cairn. 

"That I like you. What lies in your 
past, I don't care. Allow me, and I'll 
make your future my concern. I may tell 
you that this sultana must be removed and 
safely put out of the way of making trouble 
for the government. If you like her — 
take her. I can give her to you, and no 
one else can do so. Marry her, do what 
you like. Wealth goes with her. In re- 
turn, you take my orders, cut loose from 
your present employers. You'll never re- 
gret it." 

"What sort of orders?" Amazed, be- 
wildered as he was, Cairn spoke quietly. 
Did this man know or guess his past — 
that he had been kicked out of the navy, 
was now under an assumed name? Very 
probably. "Dishonest orders, mynheer?" 

VANDUNK laughed softly. "Would 
you care what sort of orders? Can 
you afford to care? I offer you the most 
beautiful woman in this part of the world, 
for a wife or what you like; and wealth. 
I offer you a future to replace that which 
you lost. No man can afford to question 
what sort of orders he gets. In the Ameri- 
can navy, you question no orders. In the 
army, you accept orders. But I accept 
your challenge! Yes. You might con- 
sider yourself bound to do anything I might 
command. In government service, re* 
member, there are unpleasant duties — such 
as getting rid of young and lovely women. 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



35 



If you refuse her, a far worse man must 
get her." 

Cairn lit a cigarette. His brain was in 
a whirl. Shame and disgrace lay like a 
blanket upon his soul. So his past was 
known or guessed! And this Dutchman 
thought him reckless of honor 

Honor? To hell with honor. That lay 
far behind him. Cap'n Cairn was a good 
seaman, with a clean ticket, but with a 
damned poor future. Here was one ready- 




made for him. Were Vandunk the devil 
in person, it certainly would not matter; 
and he had spoken frankly. Then there 
was the girl to consider. All question of 
money aside, the right person could save 
her from a lot of things. 

"Think it over, Cap'n," said Vandunk 
quietly. "There's no hurry." 

"You've sprung it on me a bit unex- 
pectedly," Cairn rejoined. "That's true. 
I'll not deny — well, let me be frank. I 
don't like your jumping at the conclusion 
that I'd have no scruples over doing the 
wrong sort of things. I would. Nothing 
lies in the past that I'm ashamed of ; much 
that I regret bitterly." 
: "Think it over," Vandunk repeated. "I 
need you for, say, three months. Then 
you 'can cut loose and the future is yours, 
and; a free one. Give me your answer 

10' 



when we sight Co'omassin— but keep confi- 
dential what I said about the sultana. 
Agreed?" 

"Agreed," said Cairn. "Good night." 
IV 

ALI came early to make up the bunk, 
*\ while Cairn was shaving. 

"Well, what's the news?" 

"The news is good, tuan." 

It was the mechanical Malay greeting, 
as empty of meaning as "Good morning." 
Ali expectorated his crimson betel-paste 
saliva carefully into the slop-basin and then 
grinned. 

"Tuan, somebody would like to do you 
in." 

The expression, in Malay, was identical 
with the English phrase. 

"Who?" Cairn demanded. 

"I could not find out. Last night when 
they thought me asleep, they talked of your 
death as of a thing expected. More, I 
could not find out. But one of those men, 
who was a true believer, spoke of having 
killed an infidel, a Christian." 

Cairn swung around. One of the Malays, 
no doubt, for all these Malays were fol- 
lowers of Allah. Here was something defi- 
nite at last. 

"Who was the man? Did he say when? 
Which of the two officers did he kill?" 

"Neither one, tuan." Ali went on speak- 
ing in Malay, evidently to make sure of 
what he was saying and to avoid mis- 
takes. "He only spoke of it as a thing 
done, a thing which would insure his entry 
into paradise. It was good luck, he said, 
that on the very night we sailed, before the 
ship was yet far at sea, he had sent a 
Christian infidel to hell. That is some- 
thing I do not understand, tuan, for neither 
of these two officers was killed that night." 

Cairn stood as though paralyzed. His 
mind slipped back, and farther back, to 
the night they had sailed from Surabaya. 
No, nothing had happened; no one had. 
been missing then — no one. 

"Ah!" The quick exclamation broke 



36 



SHORT, STORIES 



from him. Stella Tracey's story — the body 
that had fallen from the port — Mynheer 
Vandunk's explanation about his unfortu- 
nate servant who had taken too much 
bhang and opium! "But that man was 

99 

He checked himself, unwilling to say too 
much. Not a white man? How did he 
know? Probably Vandunk's servant had 
been a white man, a Dutchman. Proba- 
bly the fellow had really been killed, and 
Vandunk had covered up the matter to 
save himself trouble. Which he had cer- 
tainly done. The man had not been en- 
tered on the articles, and no trace of the 
killing, if it were such, now remained. 

"A man fell overboard that night, Ali," 
said Cairn slowly. "But he was not one 
of the crew. I did not know he was a 
white man. Possibly he was." 

No. Vandunk had very definitely said 
the man was a Malay. He had said the 
man was a victim of the disease called 
lateh, a nervous disorder which causes a 
man to commit violence and draw blood, 
spasmodically, almost without knowing it. 
Vandunk had made no mistake. Either 
Vandunk or this man up forward had 
lied. And it was not the man who had 
hoped to enter paradise by his deed; it 
was Vandunk. 

"Well, no matter," said Cairn at length. 
"It is not my affair. It's got nothing to 
do with the murder of the two officers. 
And as for killing me, they have a long 
way to go before that happens." 

"May Allah will it!" echoed Ali, and 
fell to work at the bunk. 

CAIRN looked at the picture on the 
shelf under the mirror, and went about 
his business in a dream that held his clear 
gray eyes unseeing. Even though the 
glass was down and weather whistling to 
clutch them in storm, he could think of 
nothing else. The face of that girl had 
bewitched him. The thought of her ob- 
sessed him. 

The thought of her, torn from place and 
friends by an arrogant Dutch master, given 



over as a chattel to anyone who would 
take her, fired his blood with anger. Not 
that way would he have her from Van- 
dunk's hand! He might not have her at 
all, in fact; he might not want her; she 
might not want him. It was all the most 
utter madness to think about. But there 
was the picture, there was her lovely face, 
to assure him it was no dream; and the 
offer from Vandunk. 

His future free and clear, whether with 
a wife or not. His future; money in the 
bank, a chance to build and carve afresh 
with no more slaving for mere wages. At 
the cost of three months' forgetting. A 
cheap price! He'd be a fool to throw it 
over. Lord knows he'd been no stickler 
for honor ! And the thought that he would 
be in government service was like opium, 
deadening the conscience. 

The world owed him a bitter debt. For 
a thing he had never done, he had been 
chucked out of the navy, been given a 
chance to disappear and be marked down 
as dead. Another man, some other man, 
had done it, fastening the guilt on him; 
that other man — and Cairn had never 
known who he was — now walked a war- 
ship's deck in high career. Well, no use 
thinking about it. He'd never regain what 
he had lost, and did not want to regain it. 
That was all done with. Ahead lay a 
suddenly golden future. Vandunk would 
give the orders, he would carry them out. 

"I'll do it; and to hell with regrets!" 
he told himself. "After all, only the fellow 
who comes out on top matters. You've 
got to step on somebody to get any- 
where !" 

Gray scud filled the sky, an ugly sea 
was coming up ; the Ta Ming, high in bal- 
last, rolled like sin and pitched like a devil. 
Cairn was getting a storm apron rigged 
at the break of the bridge when Stella 
Tracey joined him. She enjoyed the whip 
of spray and the lash of the wind, and the 
foaming seas beneath, now beginning to 
burst over the forward well-deck. 

"I want to ask you something," she said, 
as they stood in the lee of the pilot house. 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



"Something personal. You remember the 
picture I saw in your cabin?" 

"And that you mentioned to Vandunk?" 
said Cairn maliciously. "Yes." 

Her cool blue eyes dwelt upon him for 
an instant. 

"Was there any harm in my mentioning 
that lovely face?" 

Cairn broke into a laugh. "Lord, no! 
It brought me good luck. Go on." 

"I wondered if I might show it to my 
brother. You know, you weren't sure 
whether it was the sultana's picture. He 
knew her and would be able to identify 
her. I'm curious to know whether it's 
really her picture." 

"So am I," said Cairn eagerly. "Yes; 
by all means! I can't leave the bridge 
until noon, however. If you like, here's 
the key of my cabin. The picture's on the 
shelf under the mirror." 

She hesitated, then took the key with 
a nod. 

"Thanks very much. By the way, when 
do we reach Coomassin?" 

Cairn squinted at the sky. "Depends 
on this blow. With luck, tomorrow night 
or next morning. The old girl's pretty 
good on her pins, old as she is." 

After all, he thought, he had only the 
word of two drunks as to that photograph. 
A lot might depend on it ; if it were not a 
picture of Amina, he would need to know 
it. Good thing Miss Tracey had thought 
about it. 

"^JOON was approaching, and the ship 
was wallowing stoutly along, when 
Stella Tracey came clawing up the ladder 
to the bridge again. She stood in the 
open lee doorway and made a peremptory 
gesture. 

Even before she gestured, at first glimpse 
of her, Cairn's pulses leaped; he knew 
something was fearfully and dreadfully 
wrong. Every bit of color was gone from 
her face, and her blue eyes were ablaze. 
As they touched on him, they seemed to 
r§cpil, to shrink back from him in horror. 
> IP 



He hastened to obey her motion, to join 
her outside, alone. 

"What's wrong?" he shouted at her ear. 
"You look as though you'd seen a ghost." 

"Worse," she replied, and thrust the key 
into his hand. "Take that." 

"What's up?" he demanded, puzzled by 
her manner. "Get the picture?" 

She shook her head, her eyes staring 
at him. 

"No. I fell over — a lurch of the ship. 
I fell on your bunk. You " 

The rest was swept away by a howl of 
wind. Cairn caught her arm, and she 
pulled free as though his touch burned 
her. 

"Go look for yourself !" she cried at him, 
stridently. "Look under the edge of your 
bunk. Can't talk here." 

Then she turned and slowly made her 
way down the ladder out of sight. 

Cairn cursed in bewildered surmise. 
What the devil could she be talking about? 
Well, no matter now. Too much going 
on to pay any attention to the whimsies 
of a woman. Until eight bells, he must 
stick right here. 

Before noon sounded, Mr. Drift was on 
the bridge, cool and brisk as ever, his 
bright eyes darting about. No noon sights 
today, of course. All going well below, 
and the glass steady; even rising a frac- 
tion. The blow would be over by next 
morning. They talked, compared notes on 
drift and windage, pricked over the chart. 
Eight bells sounded. The watches were 
changed. 

"Blasted good meal waiting down there," 
said Mr. Drift cordially. "Eat hearty, sir ! 
Good luck." 

Cairn, on tenterhooks, hastened below 
at last. Before going to mess, he must 
see what it was all about. Miss Tracey's 
eyes still burned into him. 

He unlocked his cabin, stepped inside, 
closed the door again. He could see noth- 
ing amiss. What had she said — to look 
under the edge of the bunk? Why, the 
woman must have been out of her head! 



f3? SHORT 

Nothing wrong witfi the bunk. Nothing 

wrong with — with 

Good God! 

A lurch of the deck threw Cairn side- 
ways. He caught the edge of the bunk, 
sat down on the deck, and reached out to 
the thing that lay there just beneath the 
bunk. It was a knife, a short-handled, 
long-bladed knife, the blade wavy like a 
flame. A Malay kris, all stained and caked 
with dried blood. 

The blade was not flat. It had a high, 
tapering ridge on either side. It was a 
kris melala; it was the knife that had killed 
Lochaber and Andrews. This was the 
dried blood of Andrews still upon it. 

Cairn stared at the thing. What was it 
doing here in his cabin? It had not been 
here the previous night or he would have 
seen it. Or — or 

A sudden thought struck him. He lay 
flat on the deck, twisted his head beneath 
the bunk, looked up at it. Across the 
springs and the bottom of the mattress 
were dark smears. The knife had been 
hidden there, under the mattress, only to 
work out gradually. When Stella Tracey 
was flung off balance on the bunk, her 
weight must have knocked out the knife. 

Cairn's brain struggled back to coher- 
ence. Hidden in his cabin — why? So that 
blame could be cast upon him? 

For a moment the thought burned hotly 
within him, then died away. No, that was 
most unlikely. He had been here with 
Miss Tracey when Andrews was killed, and 
the knife had been stowed away here, red 
with blood. Perhaps before he came to 
his cabin and went to bed. Perhaps after. 
More likely before, though. It was im- 
probable that the murderer could have hid- 
den the knife under the mattress while he 
lay in bed with Stella Tracey sitting be- 
side him. 

While he lay here, Mr. Drift had come 
in, Erh Tan, Ali. No one else. No, the 
murderer must have been in the second 
mate's cabin when Andrews came off watch 
and walked in. Someone below here, not 
on deck. Finding this knife, knowing it 



STORIES 

must have been put here before the cabin 
was occupied, narrowed things down. 

CAIRN looked at the knife again. A 
short ivory handle, made to fit the 
small hand of a Malay. Beautiful old 
ivory, yellowed with age. A murderous 
ridged blade, such as only chiefs or great 
men would use, made of native Trengganu 
steel. Finely worked, this steel. Cairn 
rubbed it with his finger and saw yellow 
inlay. Gold. Arabic letters and arabesques 
inlaid in gold. 

A sudden flame leaped through all his 
veins. He had the murderer at last! 

Rising quickly, he went to the wash- 
stand and there cleansed the handle and 
part of the blade, washing off the dried 
blood, leaving the lower half of the kris 
as it had been. He thrust it under the 
blanket of his bunk, then made haste to 
the mess-cabin. 

There he found Miss Tracey, her brother 
and Mynheer Vandunk, who was no longer 
affected by mal-de-mer. Cairn seated him- 
self and met with a smile the coldly ques- 
tioning blue eyes of the girl. 

"Well, my friends," he said cheerfully, 
"thanks to Miss Tracey, here, I think 
I'm on the trail of the murderer of Locha- 
ber and Andrews. I'll know in an hour 
or so. Miss Tracey, I'm going to ask you 
to accompany me, after lunch, to settle the 
matter." 

She assented silently. An exclamation 
burst from Vandunk, just as Ali came into 
the cabin with his tray. 

"What, Cap'n? ,You know who mur- 
dered 'em?" 

Cairn nodded. "And I've got the wea- 
pon. Can't go into it now, until I make 
certain. So let it pass for the present." 
He glanced up and met the gaze of Ali 
fastened upon him, a wide and startled 
gaze. He smiled. "Ali! Remember the 
man whom you mentioned to me? The 
one who's headed for paradise? I want 
you to send him to my cabin at four bells 
— two o'clock. Nothing wrong; I merely 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



39 



want to ask him a few questions. How's 
Mr. Erh Tan today?" 

"The Chinaman is improving, tuan," AH 
said, with his usual touch of contempt 
when mentioning the yellow race. "He has 
requested some food." 

Cairn nodded and pitched into his meal. 

"I say!" exclaimed young Tracey. 
"Couldn't you tip us off, Cap'n? We're 
all friends here, you know." 

Cairn chuckled, met the shoe-button eyes 
of Vandunk, and winked. 

"Are we? When Mynheer Vandunk 
had his doubts about me — and I had mine 
about him? Huh! Wait till it's definitely 
settled." 

Under the impact of his decisive tone, 
the others laughed and yielded. Vandunk 
began to talk with Stella Tracey about 
rubber exports. Her brother, with his 
boyish manner, produced a clipping from 
his pocket, laughed, and thrust it at her. 

"There you are, sis. You said you'd 
ask Mynheer Vandunk about it " 

He broke off, at his sister's angry flush. 
She caught at the clipping. Vandunk 
laughed and flung a question at her. Re- 
luctantly, she gave him a glimpse of the 
clipping before tucking it out of sight. 

"Nothing at all ; silly curiosity," she said. 
"I saw this picture of you in an official 
gazette in Surabaya and kept the cutting. 
We decided it didn't look like you." 

Vandunk's broad features contracted 
slightly. For an instant his eyes widened, 
and white showed around the pupils; then 
he broke into a hearty laugh. 

"Oh! You're right about it," he said, 
chuckling. "It's an old picture, taken 
years ago when I was young and good- 
looking." 

Cairn rose abruptly. "Ready, Miss 
Tracey? Let's go. Mynheer, I'll look 
you up in your cabin as soon as we know 
the rights of this." 

Vandunk nodded silently. Cairn de- 
parted with Stella Tracey. She said noth- 
ing as she followed to Cairn's cabin. Her 
air was aloof but alert. Cairn unlocked 
His door and ushered her in, then took the 



kris from under the blanket. He wrapped 
it in a couple of towels and turned to her. 

"By the way, would you mind letting 
me see that picture of Vandunk? I'm a 
bit curious about it." 

She produced the clipping. "Keep it, 
if it interests you. I'm sorry my brother 
mentioned it before him. Just what do 
you propose doing about that kris?" 

"You'll see." Cairn glanced at the clip- 
ping, which showed a face of pronounced 
aquiline features, then tucked it from sight. 
"Come along, please. My program will 
explain itself and avoid a lot of talk." 

His Webley was already in his jacket 
pocket, hanging heavily. 

HE LED the way to the cabin of Erh 
Tan and knocked. At the response, 
he opened the door. The plump yoUng 
Chinese, now not so plump, was sitting 
up in his berth. 

"Miss Tracey is here," said Cairn. "We 
may come in? Thanks. I'd like a word 
with you, and it's rather important." 

Erh Tan protested the disarray of his 
room, but Cairn ignored him. When the 
door was closed, he spoke calmly, affably. 

"Do you remember telling me of having 
seen a certain kris lying on the desk of 




your relative, Li Tock Lo, in Surabaya?" 

Erh Tan remembered. He told of it 
again, exactly as he had told Cairn on the 
previous occasion, and described the kris. 
There was wonder in his face as he spoke, 
and a certain perplexity. 

"That," said Cairn, "was about a week' 
before we sailed, you said. Did you ever 
see the kris again?" 



40 SHORT 

"Yes," said Erh Tan. "A day or two 
later, I noticed it, in the same place. I 
may have seen it on other occasions, but 
do not recall it." 

A heightened color had risen in the 
cheeks of Stella Tracey. 

"You haven't left your cabin for several 
days, I think?" asked Cairn. 

"I have been ill." Erh Tan gestured 
helplessly. "That day when Ali told me 
you were poisoned, I went over to your 
cabin. It was the only time I have been 
out of the room." 

Cairn laid bare the kris. "Is this the 
same weapon?" 

Erh Tan looked at it and caught his 
breath. .The pallor of his rotund face 
deepened. His eyes sharpened and drove 
suddenly at Cairn. 

"That's it, Captain !" he exclaimed. "The 
same, the same ! But how " 

"Exactly. How?" repeated Cairn 
grimly. "This was found hidden in my 
cabin, with the blood of Andrews still on 
it. And I don't think it walked aboard 
of itself. You've been below here. You're 
the only person, apparently, who might 
have murdered Mr. Andrews, hidden the 
knife in my room, and then returned here 
before I took to my bed that day. As to 
the murder of Lochaber " 

For a long moment Erh Tan stared up 
at him, with agitation working in the plump 
features. Then those features settled into 
lines of calm. The oblique eyes quieted. 
Cairn was perfectly acquainted with this 
phenomenon, so familiar to any who have 
had intimate dealings with the Chinese. 
Erh Tan had simply "retired within him- 
self," as his people express it. He had 
cast a politely blank veil over his inter- 
course with the whites before him. 

"I cannot explain," he said with a 
strange dignity. "I understand what you 
think. I cannot argue against it. I have 
been very ill here, and certainly would 
not have desired to kill anyone. I know 
nothing more about the kris than what I 
have already told you." 



STORIES 

"Don't be a fool," said Cairn roughly. 
"The facts are against you " 

"I think Erh Tan has told us the truth, 
Captain," intervened Stella Tracey of a 
sudden. Cairn flung her an irritated 
glance. 

"What? It's impossible that anyone else 
should have brought this kris aboard." 

"You don't know that it is," she re- 
turned, and smiled. "You think it impos- 
sible ; that does not make it so. Erh Tan 
would never have mentioned the kris to 
you, had he been guilty." 

Cairn nodded. "Perhaps; perhaps not. 
You prefer to think me the guilty one?" 

"Don't be silly." Her blue eyes warmed 
upon him. "1 think nothing of the sort. 
Li Tock Lo is the person to ask about this 
weapon." 

"Right. None the less," said Cairn, "I 
must put you under arrest and confine you 
to this cabin, Erh Tan. Agree, and I'll 
not charge you openly with the murders, 
until we can communicate with Li. Is 
there a cable station at Coomassin?" 

"There is nothing," said the young Chi- 
nese calmly. "Macassar would be the near- 
est point from which you could reach Sura- 
baya. Your proposal is equitable. I ac- 
cept." 

CAIRN nodded, ushered Miss Tracey 
out, locked the door and pocketed the 
key. The ship was lurching badly. He 
caught the hand-rail in the passage and 
looked at the English girl. 

"Blessed if I know what to think!" he 
said slowly. "I'm tempted to believe him, 

and yet the facts " 

"You mean, the facts that we can see," 
she cut in. "You've brought me into this ; 
let's be quite frank. You're not the type 
of man to commit murders, or in such a 
manner. That's why I was so horrified 
at finding the knife. Now, Erh Tan isn't 
the right type, either. He's really been 
very ill. Let the matter rest for the present 
as it is. Let me go and see Vandunk and 
tell him just what's happened; I think I 
can make him see the thing aright." 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



4i 



Cairn was silent for a moment. Oddly 
enough, into his mind flitted the words of 
Erh Tan: "Maybe we start a ball rolling, 
and that is all; we cannot tell where it 
will roll." Had somebody started some 
ball rolling here? What did Li Tock Lo 
know about this peculiar kris? 

"Very well," Cairn said slowly. "Re- 
member, the day Lochaber was killed, Erh 
Tan was up and about for the first time. 
Then he became seasick again, as he is 
now. It doesn't look so good, for him. 
However, have it your own way." 

"Thank you." She put out her hand, 
frankly. Cairn gave her a firm grip, met 
her cool blue eyes, .and then she was gone. 

Cairn went to his own cabin, put the kris 
out of sight, and started for a turn on the 
bridge. As he emerged from the passage 
and went to the foot of the ladder, he 
caught a sudden terrific commotion on the 
forward well-deck below. He swung 
around, startled. 

A knot of the men there, careless of the 
flying spray and water, were tangling in 
mad and insensate battle. Yells rang on 
the wind, knives were flashing; half a 
dozen men were hotly swarming in the 
knot. Then a flying figure came down past 
Cairn, caught the lower ladder, hit the 
deck, and went into the mass of them. It 
was Mr. Drift. 

Cairn was stupefied at the swiftness, the 
savagery, of the mate's action. Mr. Drift 
went into them barehanded. The knot dis- 
integrated into groaning men. One of 
them rushed in with ready knife. A shot 
spanged out and the man fell. Pistol in 
hand, Mr. Drift kicked the others about 
their business and then returned, leaving 
the dead man to be tended by the others. 
At the top of the ladder, Cairn met him. 

"Mister, that was a revelation! Did 
you kill that chap?" 

"Aye, sir." Mr. Drift laughed shortly. 
"A bad actor, that Merah; he'd run amok 
and knifed two of the other men. When 
those brown monkeys run amok, they're 
done. They're bound for paradise, and the 



quicker the better. He was a proper bad 
'un. Shall I log it?" 

"Of course. All right above?" 

"Quite, sir. Weather breaking a bit and 
the glass rising." 

Cairn went back to his cabin. He had 
forgotten his instructions to Ali, and meant 
to snatch an hour's sleep. First, he took 
out the clipping, the picture of Vandunk, 
and put it on his table. He stared down 
at it, frowning. 

Younger? No. Not like Vandunk at 
all. A high-nosed, aquiline face with large 
eyes; a different man altogether. He 
thought of Vandunk's expression at catch- 
ing sight of the picture. Queer! Yet the 
man had laughed it off quite naturally. 

Four bells sounded; two o'clock. A 
knock, and Ali came into the cabin. Cairn 
looked up. 

"Hello! I forgot about that order — 
where's the man?" 

"Dead, tuan." Ali came forward and 
squatted down, crushed a wad of betel- 
paste and slipped it into his mouth. "It 
was the man Merah, a Malay from Kedah, 
who ran amok a little while ago and was 
shot by Tuan Drift." 

"Eh? You mean that he was the same 
who boasted of having killed a Christian ?" 

"The same, tuan." Ali chewed in silence 
for a space, his bright old eyes fastened 
on Cairn. Then: "Tuan kapitan! When 
I was a young man, I was a ship captain 
and owner of ships. Then I went to Eng- 
land for a time. I know much about ships. 
Tuan Vandunk has charts in his room and 
has been working over them. On one is 
Coomassin." 

"That's natural," Cairn said absently. 
"He's taking command there for the Dutch 
government. I thought you knew this. It's 
no secret." 

"When you were on the bridge this 
morning, tuan, two men were in the cabin 
of Tuan Vandunk for a long time, talking 
with him. One was Tuan Drift. The 
other was Sabok, the quartermaster." 

Cairn jerked awake. "Eh? In Van- 
dunk's cabin — you're sure?" 



42 



SHORT STORIES 



ALI grinned unpleasantly. "If I do the 
work of a mongrel dog, at least I 
have a dog's scent — and teeth." 

Well, why not? Drift had been the 
man's agent. No harm in one of the quar- 
termasters coming along for a talk — no 
harm, but damned queer just the same. 
It was off balance entirely. Cairn began 
to stride up and down the cabin, knees 
giving to the thrust of the deck, a frown 
ridging his forehead, thinning his gray 
eyes. 

"Any more word for'ard about my ap- 
proaching death?" he shot out. 
"None, tuan." 

Cairn felt irritated with the man. He 
had the sense of being up against a blank 
wall here, as though this Malay knew a 
lot that remained unurtered. 

"When you take any food to Mr. Erh 
Tan, get the key from me," he said. "He's 
locked into his cabin for the present. That's 
all. You may go." 

Ali stood up. His gaze struck upon the 
table, upon the clipping lying there, upon 
the pictured face. A sharp glitter came 
into his eyes, as though of recognition. As 
he started to speak, came a rap at the door 
and the voice of Tracey. 

"You here, Captain Cairn? May I 
come in?" 

"Come in," sang out Cairn, and Tracey 
entered, laughing, blond, boyish. Ali took 
his departure. 

"Cigarette?" Tracey proffered his case, 
struck a match, and sat on the edge of the 
bunk. "Well, how d'you like your amateur 
engineer?" 

Cairn smiled. "He's open to congratula- 
tions. All well down below?" 

"Smooth as smooth. Good old engines 
she's got." Tracey leaned forward earn- 
estly. "Look here, sir; one of the stories 
about the Devil's Bosun goes that he's a 
chap named Patterson who was kicked out 
of the Shanghai Merchants' line a couple 
of years back. Never been proven, y'know. 
But a bally odd thing happened when I 
came off duty at eight bells. I turned 



back, having forgotten my cigarette case, 
and that halfbreed engineer was speaking 
to the bridge. He didn't know I was com- 
ing down the gratings, never saw me in 
fact. I heard him say, 'Tell Cap'n Patter- 
son about it.' That was all. It's utter 
rot, of course, but—well, I thought I'd 
mention it." 

Cairn's brows lifted. Mr. Drift had 
taken over the bridge at that time. 

"Patterson? An unlikely name to mis- 
take, I admit," he said slowly. "You think 
we have the Devil's Bosun aboard? Why'd 
he be aboard us?" 

Tracey leaned back and shook his head. 

"I can't see, of course. Still, I was 
rather certain I'd caught the name aright. 
With these murders and all, you know — 
Well, I'll be off. Hope you don't think 
me too much of an ass to fetch such a 
story " 

"On the contrary," said Cairn, "I'm glad 
you did. I don't know what to make of 
it, for a fact. We've no pirates aboard. 
Not a chance; Mynheer Vandunk picked 
each man carefully. Even looked me up," 
and he grimaced wrily. "No, I don't think 
we need worry about the Devil's Bosun 
this trip, Tracey. But keep your ears 
open, by all means. So far we've drawn 
pretty blank, but no telling what may turn 

99 

up. 

Tracey departed. Almost instantly, Ali 
knocked and re-entered, as though he had 
been waiting outside the door. He slid 
forward and touched the clipping that still 
lay on the table. 

"Tuan!" he exclaimed in his harsh Ma- 
lay. "This man came aboard the night we 
sailed. I have not seen him since then. 
I saw him carried aboard. I was watching 
Tuan Vandunk come. This man was car- 
ried into his cabin after him; his hat fell 
off and I saw his face. Where is he now?": 

Cairn swung around. For a moment he 
was incapable of speech, as the import of 
the words drifted across his mind. Van- 
dunk's servant was a white man after all, 
then — no, impossible! 

10 



THE DEVIL'S BOSUN 



43 



"Ali ! You don't know what you're say- 
ing," he exclaimed quickly. "Not this 
man. Not this man of the picture!" 

"It is the face of the white man who was 
carried into Tuan Vandunk's cabin," the 
Malay exclaimed vehemently. "I call Allah 
to witness that I speak truth, tuan kapitan ! 
I saw his face before the door slammed. 
He has not been about the ship since then. 
He is the man whom Merah killed, the 
Christian— — " 

CAIRN felt stifled. "All right. Clear 
out of here and let me think," he 
ordered. AH drew back, blinking at him; 
a rush of blood had suffused Cairn's face, 
his eyes were wild, his manner was strange. 
He struggled to keep himself under con- 
trol, to meet this thing sanely. He heard 
the door close, knew he was alone. He 
came forward and looked down at the pic- 
ture on the table. 

Incredible? It was insane. And yet 
there was no mistaking it. 

Here was a picture of the man who had 
been carried limply aboard, and who had 
later been killed and dropped out of Van- 
dunk's port. This frightful and unbelieva- 
ble fact was the key to everything. Cairn's 
brain raced back, picked up details as he 
stood there. 



The real Mynheer Vandunk had been 
bound for Coomassin, no mistake about 
that. Mr. Drift might have been his agent ; 
probably was not. With an appalling ef- 
frontery, all the details had been arranged 
and dovetailed. Just how, did not matter 
now ; it had been managed superbly. That 
little matter of the train from Batavia hav- 
ing been missed, gave the clue. Mynheer 
Vandunk had left Batavia — but he had not 
reached Surabaya consciously. Another 
man had taken his place. 

Another man had come aboard ship in 
the early morning hours, taking his name ;' 
another man, muffled to the eyes. The real 
Vandunk had been lugged aboard, and later 
knifed and thrown into the ocean. Cold- 
blooded, efficient cruelty! Dead men tell 
no tales. 

Handpicked crew? A bitter, wild laugh 
burst from Cairn. 

"Who's this fellow, then?" he muttered. 
"Who's this man posing as Vandunk— 
this infernally clever rat who's been running 
the whole show, who has Vandunk's papers, 
who's taken his place? By the lord Harry, 
who else could it be? Tracey put a name 
to him — Patterson." 

The whole thing lay clear to him now. 
This man who called himself Mynheer 
Vandunk was in reality this Devil's Bosun. 



(Part II in the Next Short Stories.) 



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10 



Black John Buys Some 




To Think That Corporal Downey of 
the Mounted Had Ever Doubted 
the Integrity of the Dictator 
of Halfaday Creek! 



OLD CUSH, proprietor of 
Cushing's Fort, the combined 
trading post and saloon that 
served the little community of 
outlawed men that had sprung 
up on Halfaday Creek, close against the 
Yukon-Alaska borderline, set out a bottle, 
a leather dice box, and two glasses as 
Black John Smith entered the door and 
advanced to the bar. 

"There was a piece in the paper you 
fetched up from Dawson," he began, as the 
other picked up the dice box, "that says 
where some army officer, over there in 
the Phillipyne Islands, took a common sol- 
dier er two along with him, an' set out 
fer to capture this here Aguinaldo." 
"I don't know nothin' about no Agui- 



naldo," replied Black John, casting the dice, 
"but there's three fives to beat in one." 

"Yeah," assented Cush, returning the 
dice to the box and spreading them on the 
bar with a flourish, "an' there's three sixes 
that does it. Aguinaldo, he's the nigger 
General that's fightin' the U. S. over there 
in them islands. An' there's four deuces 
right back at you. See what yer law oi 
averages says about that!" 

Black John cast the dice, scowled at 
the pair of fours that showed, and filled 
his glass, as Cush made the proper notation 
in his book. "What," he asked, "would 
the U. S. Army be wantin' with a General 
of niggers?" 

"Well— hell ! If they ketched their Gen- 
eral, they could take him down an' choke 
44 10 



BONDS By JAMES B. HENDRYX 

Author of the Halfaday Creek Stories 



him, er somethin', till he ordered the nig- 
gers to quit fightin'. Then that would 
end the war." 

"Why would the Army want to end a 
war? Cripesl If it wasn't fer wars, they 
wouldn't have no job." 

"That's so," admitted Cush, "why would 
they? Maybe they figger they've got him 
about licked, er somethin', an' want to tip 
him off to start another one. But anyhow, 
it took a lot of guts fer this fella to go 
off in them jungles which is full of them 
head-huntin' niggers — an' white man's 
heads figgered as blue chips among 
an' try to pinch off their General, 
kind of sorry fer him." 

"Sorry hell!" exclaimed Black 
"What do you want to feel sorry fer him 
fer? . He's doin' what he wants to, ain't 
10 



em — 
I feel 

John. 



he? There didn't no one tell him to go, 
did they? It was his own idee. You kin 
bet that his superior officers never sent him 
on no sech a fool trip. An' if a man's 
workin' on an idee, no matter what the 
odds is agin him, he's happy. If you want 
to feel sorry, why the hell don't you feel 
sorry for them common soldiers he took 
along with him? I'll bet they ain't happy 
— by a damn sight 1" 

"The papers says where they've been 
gone quite a while now — an' they ain't 
come back. I still claim it took a lot of 
guts." 

"I ain't deridin' his guts, none," agreed 
Black John. "But if a man lets his guts 
run away with his brains — that ain't so 
good neither. Their heads is prob'ly stick- 
in' up on poles somewheres, right now." 



45 



46 



SHORT STORIES 



ONE-ARMED JOHN was in a day or 
so back," said Cush, changing the 
subject, "an' he says how them three fellas 
that moved into Olson's old shack, down 
the crick, had went." 

"Yeah," said Black John. "I looked in 
there when I come up from Dawson, an' 
I seen there wasn't no one there. It's 
prob'ly jest as well. I never figgered they 
was no ornament to the crick." 

"By the way, John, did you do any good 
on yer prospectin' trip?" 

"Oh — about so-so. I done a little bet- 
ter'n wages. Nothin' to brag of." 

"Look who's comin' up from the land- 
in'," exclaimed Cush. "Damn if it ain't 
Corporal Downey! Wonder what he's 
doin' on Halfaday? Mebbe he's up after 
them three we was jest talkin' about." 

"Might be, at that," agreed Black John, 
as he turned to greet the young officer of 
the Northwest Mounted Police, who was 
entering the door. 

"Hello, Downey ! Me an' Cush was jest 
talkin' about you ! Is it, mebbe, some crim- 
inal matter that brings you amongst us? 
Er is this jest a neighborly call? Belly 
up. Cush is buyin' a drink." 

"It's a kinda of a hurry-up case," replied 
Downey, filling the glass that Old Cush 
placed before him. "There was a big ex- 
press train robbery down in Alberta, an' 
they seem to think that the robbers might 
of hit north. The Inspector sent me up 
the White, with orders to go on up the 
Dalton Trail as far as the detachment, an' 
then swing in here an' report back to Daw- 
son." 

"You got a description of the robbers?" 
asked Black John. 

"No, all we know is that there's two 
of 'em, an' they might be headed north." 
He paused and grinned. "Any two fel- 
lows I meet on the trail headed inside are 
apt to get their packs searched for con- 
cealed weapons; if I should accidentally 
stumble onto any bonds, of course, I'd 
gather 'em in." 

"Bonds, eh? Was there an important 
amount of 'em?" 



"Yeah — damned important. Half a mil- 
lion dollars worth. They think the rob- 
bers got the wrong pouch. There was a 
heavy shipment of currency on the train, 
too. But somehow, they overlooked it an' 
took the bonds. It was a special shipment, 
to cover a deal involvin' the merger of the 
West Coast an' the Alaska- Pacific Steam- 
ship lines. It come through from Eng- 
land." 

"Well, it was insured, wasn't it?" 

"Yes, it was insured, all right. But that 
ain't the half of it — if these bonds ain't 
located within ninety days, the merger deal 
is off, an' the London Syndicate that's 
interested will stand to lose a couple of 
millions in profits. Sir Henry Billson, 
their representative, is sure hell-bent to 
get them bonds back. It's important 
enough so we sent out special patrols." 

"But no one could cash them bonds, 
even if they had 'em, could they? Hell — 
they're all numbered, er somethin', ain't 
they?" 

"Sure they are, but the robbers might 
get away with it, at that. If they hit 
south an' crossed into the States, there's 
plenty of fences that handle hot bonds. 
They'd have to let go of 'em at a loss on 
their face value — but they could get rid 
of 'em, all right. It's the time element 
in this deal that makes Sir Henry so 
anxious to get 'em back. Of course, who- 
ever showed up with one of 'em would be 
picked up for a suspected robber." 

"Yeah," agreed Black John. "When 
was this here event pulled off?" 

"Three weeks ago — jest long enough so 
they could be nosin' into the Yukon coun- 
try, if they hurried." 

"H-u-u-m, that would be about the time 
I was down to Dawson, wouldn't it?" 

"Yup, jest about," agreed Downey. "Has 
anyone showed up on Halfaday? I sure 
wish you'd help me out on this case, John. 
Practically the whole force is huntin' 'm, 
an' believe me, I'd like to be the one that 
picked 'em up. Besides, they'd ort to be 
caught, anyhow. They killed the express 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



47 



messenger, an— it's the rope fer 'em if 
they're caught" 

BLACK JOHN nodded. "You might's 
well go on back to Dawson," he said. 
"There ain't no new faces on Halfaday. 
I give you my word, Downey, that if them 
bonds shows up on the crick, you'll git 
'em. You'll have to take your own chances 
on pickin' up the robbers, though. It 
would probably serve 'em right to git 
caught, at that. I don't believe in murder- 
in' a man fer the purpose of robbery. It 
don't somehow seem right." 

Corporal Downey smiled a tight-lipped 
smile. "I'm takin' you at your word, 
John," he said. "Without havin' any de- 
scription of the robbers, I know damn 
well that if they're already on Halfaday, 
they've had time to cache the stuff, an' 
I'd never find it. I know that if the bonds 
showed up on the crick, you'll locate 'em, 
an' I believe you'll deliver 'em to me. I 
ain't forgot that there's been times when 




you've turned over big sums of cash to me, 
that you could jest as well kept for your- 
self — like the money from that Boston bank 
robbery, an' that dust Monty had hid in 
the shaft, behind them dead men, that time. 
But there's been other times when I've sort 

of had my suspicions that " Downey 

paused, and the grin widened. 

"Well, cripes," interrupted Black John, 
His keen blue eyes twinkling above the 
heavy black beard, "you can't expect to git 
all the breaks, Downey! A horse apiece 
feiair play, as the Good Book says. The 



Mounted, bein' what it is, I hold that it's 
bad ethics to commit practically any crime 
at all on this side of the line. An' you've 
got to remember, Downey — you can't 
hang a man on suspicion." 

"You an' yer ethics!" grinned the cor- 
poral. "We've hung men with better ethics 
than yours ! Drink up, I'm buyin' one, an' 
then I'll be movin' along." 

"Yeah, mebbe you have," laughed Black 
John. "But you've always ketched 'em at 
somethin' before you done it. Here's mud 
in yer eye. Up here on Halfaday you'll 
always find us willin' to work hand in 
glove with the police. Ain't that so, Cush?" 

"Oh, shore," agreed the somber-faced 
proprietor. "We aim to keep the crick 
moral in spite of hell." 

BLACK JOHN followed Downey down 
to the landing. "By the way," he 
asked, "did you fellas grab off either one 
of them kidnappers before they got out- 
side? I've kind of wondered if that last 
one ever ketched up with his pardner — 
the one that had the dough?" 

"No," replied Downey, "we didn't. 
They'll be picked up, though, as soon as 
they begin to spend that money. We took 
the numbers of all those bills, an' they've 
gone out over the new telegraph wire to 
every police force in Canada, an' the States, 
too. An' not only that, the banks have got 
the numbers, too." 

"Well, well, so they've got the wire 
through, at last, eh? Handy thing fer you 
fellas, ain't it — that telegraph?" 

"You bet it is ! That's how we got word 
of this bond robbery. Hadn't been fer the 
wire, we prob'ly wouldn't have heard about 
it yet." 

"Well, so long, Downey. Don't you 
worry about them bonds. If them fellas 
hit north, the chances is they'll show up 
on Halfaday. Most of them damn mis- 
creants does, fer some reason er other. We 
don't mind that, as long as they stay moral. 
But the trouble with the bulk of 'em- 
there ain't no steadfastness about their 
morality. It's apt to be spread on kind 



4 8 



SHORT STORIES 



of thin — an' when it begins to wear 
through, they're out of luck." 

n 

IS THIS Cushirig's Fort, on Halfaday 
Creek?" asked a voice from the door- 
way, one morning ten days after the 
departure of Corporal Downey. 

"Both guesses is right," replied Black 
John, as he and Old Cush eyed the pack- 
laden men who advanced to the bar. 

"We're glad to git here," said one of 
them wearily, as he wriggled from his 
straps and let his pack fall to the floor. 
"We've had a hell of a trip." 

"Sech gladness might er might not be 
mutual," Black John retorted. "Jest reach 
in the name-can yonder, an' help yerselves 
to a couple of names." 

"Name-can?" queried the other, as he 
too divested himself of his pack. "What 
the hell's a name-can?" 

"It's a simple device me an' Cush here 
thought up for to furnish good workable 
names to folks that comes in here lyin' 
about their own. Most folks that comes 
bustin' in on us claims their name is John 
Smith, which would be all right with us, 
if it didn't lead to confusion." 

The larger of the two men grinned. "I 
git you," he said, and reaching into the can 
withdrew a slip of paper and read off the 
name: "Eli Fulton." 

The other man drew a slip and read, 
"Robert Whitney." 

Black John nodded approval. "The 
party back of the bar is Old Cush hisself 
an' my name's John Smith," he announced. 
"I'm mostly called Black John, owin' to 
the fact that my whiskers turned out to be 
that color." He glanced toward the pro- 
prietor, who stood behind the bar, twisting 
an end of his long yellow mustache. "Cush, 
I want you should meet my old friends, 
Eli and Bob." 

"The house is buyin' one," announced 
Cush, by way of acknowledging the intro- 
duction. 



"I'll have some coneyack," said Whitney, 
eyeing the bottles on the back bar. 

"You might think you will, but you 
won't," replied Cush evenly. "Them names 
is on them bottles jest to make 'em look 
fancy. The licker in all of 'em is drawed 
out of the same bar'l. It's whiskey. An' 
if it ain't good enough fer you, you kin 
go dry. Sometime some damn shorthorn 
is goin' to come prancin' up here demand- 
in' beer — an' when he does, he's goin' to 
git a bung-starter right plumb between the 
eyes." 

"Oh, hell— whiskey's all right with me," 
the man hastened to explain. "I seen that 
bottle with 'coneyack' on it, an' I thought 
I'd try a little jest fer a change." 

"Changin' licker's hard on a man's guts," 
opined Cush, "besides bein' a damn nui- 
sance fer a bartender. What I claim, if a 
man can't git along with whiskey, he'd ort 
to stay to home an' rig him up a sugar 
tit." 

THE liquor was downed, and, ordering 
another round, Fulton turned to Black 
John. "So you're Black John Smith, eh? 
We heard about you an' Cushing's Fort 
down on the Yukon. Some fellers was 
tejlin' us how you boys was all outlaws 
up here — an' how the police don't never 
dare to stick their nose on Halfaday Crick. 
We was headin' fer the Klondike, till we 
run onto these fellers at Selkirk. An' when 
they told us about this crick, we decided 
to come on up here. We thought it might 
suit us better than down around Dawson." 

"Well, it might, at that," agreed Black 
John, ordering a round of drinks. "It's 
true that most of us here on Halfaday is 
outlawed, fer one reason er another, but 
it ain't true that the police don't dare show 
up here. The fella you was talkin' with 
must of been a chechako, er he'd knowed 
damn well that the Mounted would dare 
to go anywhere they wanted to, an' it would 
be jest too damn bad fer anyone that tried 
to stop 'em. The facts is, the police don't 
bother us none up here — not because they 
don't dare to, but because there ain't any 

to 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



49 



reason they should. Me an' Cush, here, 
we try to keep the crick moral — an' all the 
rest of the boys backs us up in it, by 
votin' a hangin' onto anyone that would 
commit any crime on the crick that would 
fetch in the police. Keep a crick free of 
crime, an' the police will let it alone." 

"That's good common sense," approved 
the man. "But what do you fellers do up 
here?" 

"We work," replied Black John. "There 
ain't nothin' like good honest toil to keep a 
man out of mischeef. Cush, here, he runs 
the saloon an' tradin' post — an' all the rest 
of us works on our claims." 

"You mean, dig fer gold?" 

"Yeah — that's about the only enterprise 
that's flourished, so far, on the crick." 

"We don't know nothin' about gold dig- 
gin'," protested Whitney, calling for a 
round of drinks. 

"It ain't no complicated business to 
learn," said Black John. "You stake out 
a claim, an' then you dig. You sink a 
shaft, an' throw the gravel onto a dump, 
and then sluice out the dump. We kin 
show you about riggin' up a windlass, an' a 
sluice." 

BLACK JOHN npted that the man was 
beginning to show the effects of his 
liquor, and he ordered another round. As 
Whitney refilled his glass, he scowled. "I 
didn't come up here to dig in the ground 
like a damn badger," he said. "From what 
we heard about the gold camps, a man 
could have a hell of a good time, an' clean 
up good money at poker, an' roulette, an' 
faro — provided he had a stake to start 
with." 

Black John nodded. "Yeah, I guess 
some of 'em's doin' it down around Daw- 
son. But Halfaday ain't that kind of a 
camp." 

"I don't notice you breakin' yer back 
none with no shovel," retorted the man. 

Black John took no offence. "I took a 
day off," he explained. "I got up this 
mornin' with a bellyache, an' I figgered a 
little licker would do it good." 



"Accordin' to what we heard from them 
fellers down on the Yukon, there's plenty 
of money on Halfaday — gold an' paper 
money, too. They claim that every onct 
in so often you go down to Dawson with 
a hull damn boatload of gold an' trade it in 
fer bills. They said you had plenty — an' 
Cush, too. They claimed that jest about 
everyone on the crick was well fixed." 

Black John, himself, was obviously be- 
ginning to feel his liquor, so that Old Cush 
eyed him quizzically as he thumped the bar 
with his fist, and bellowed for another 
round. "Oh, shore!" he boasted. "Take 
us per capita, an' we're a damn rich crick ! 
I've got plenty of dust an' bills, too! 
Plenty — an' more than a plenty fer all my 
needs an' requirements. But I'm a fly in 
my ointment, as the Good Book says — 
meanin' that I'm all bogged down in my 
own wealth. What good does it do a man 
to have a lot of gold, an' a lot of bills? No 
good whatever! Not a damn bit of good 
— if they ain't earnin' him nothin'. Gold 
an' bills cached away in holes in the rocks, 
an' in iron safes ain't producin' a man 
nothin' ! They don't draw no interest. 
That's the trouble with Halfaday, gents — 
a man's got to keep toilin' away, no matter 
how much money he's got, er he ain't earn- 
in' nothin'. Take it now in cities an' places 
like that, if a man's got money, he don't 
never have to work. No sir — he kin set 
back an' take life easy, an' let his money 
work fer . him. He kin buy store buildin's 
an' houses, an* rent 'em out to folks. He 
kin put his money in a bank an' let it draw 
interest, er he kin buy stock in some com- 
pany, an' drag down dividends, er he could 
buy bonds, an' live like a king on the inter- 
est of 'em. But here on Halfaday, we're 
cut off from all them advantages. I feel 
sorry fer us, gents. Yes, sir, much as we'd 
like to have you settle amongst us, I can't 
see no future in it fer you. You'd jest 
have to go on diggin' out dust, that you 
ain't got no use fer when you git it dug." 
He appealed to Cush, who stood eyeing 
him with a disapproving frown. "Am I 
rjght, my dear friend — er am I wrong?" 



SHORT STORIES 



"Yer soused," growled Cush, "an' talkin' 
like a damn fool." 

"Oh, I don't know," interrupted Fulton, 
ordering a round of drinks. "There's a hell 
of a lot of good common sense in what he 
says. If a man's got money he's out of luck 
if he can't set it to workin' fer him. Money 
ain't no good layin' around idle. Like he 
says, if he could invest it in good stock, er 
bonds — 'specially bonds. They're safer, 
an' they don't fluctuate, like stocks does. 
Good sound bonds is damn good property." 

"You said it, ol' pal!" agreed Black 
John, throwing an arm about the man's 
shoulder. "Don't pay no 'tenshun to Cush. 
I know a smart man when I she one. Yer 
smart, 'cause yer smart enough to know 
I'm smart, an' that makes two of us. It's 
onearned increments that's the bane of — 
of — of the financial strucher of — of civiliza- 
tion—you know that, 'cause yer smart — an' 
I know it — but, Cush — he don't even know 
what we're talkin' about. He's good fella 
—Cush is — but he ain't smart — an' he never 
will be. Fill 'em up again, Cush! An' 
listen around a while, an' mebbe you'll git 
smart, too. Thish man's right — if I could 
buy some bonds, I'd be happy." 

THE meaning look that passed between 
the two strangers at Black John's state- 
ment was not lost on Old Cush, whose 
frown deepened at Fulton's next words: 

"Fact is," he said, casually, "we've got 
a few gilt-edged bonds with us that we 
might part with fer ready cash." 

Black John regarded the man owlishly: 
"Wha's a difference if a bond's got gilt 
edges ? It's wha's on the flat side of a bond 
that counts — not wha's on the edges of it. 
You think I'm a sucker, eh? Think you 
kin sell me some bonds because it's got 
fancy edges, eh?" 

Fulton laughed good naturedly, and or- 
dered a round of drinks. "You don't quite 
git me," he explained. "What I meant — 
gilt-edged — was jest a way us bond sales- 
men has of sayin' a bond is A Number One. 
Anything that's an awful good buy, we say 
it's gilt-edged. Like a deck of cards — the 



gilt-edged ones is the best cards; they cost 
the most, an' they're worth more." 

"Yeah," agreed Black John cagily. "But 
there's jest as many aces in a cheap deck. 
Like I was tellin' you — it's what's on the 
flat of 'em that counts, not the edges." 

"You're right," agreed the man, "an' our 
bonds have got the goods on the flat of 
'em — you kin bet on that. Hell — you don't 
suppose we'd try to unload no phony bonds 
on anyone, do you? Not with the laws 
what they be, we wouldn't. The Gover'- 
ment checks up on all bonds before they'll 
let 'em be offered fer sale. Hell's fire, a 
man could go to jail fer tryin' to unload 
phony bonds!" 

"They ort to, too," acquiesced Black 
John solemnly. "It would be one of the 




worst forms of skullduggery — an' on Half- 
aday it would be hangable. So you two is 
bond salesmen, eh? Funny place fer bond 
salesmen to come. I'd think they'd stick 
around cities, where there's more folks to 
sell bonds to." 

THAT'S where yer wrong," replied the 
man. "The cities is all full of bond 
salesmen. The competition's fierce. Me an' 
my pardner, here, we figgered this way— 
here's them gold camps, we says, up north, 
where they've got plenty of gold and no- 
wheres to invest it — jest like you was say- 
in' yerself. We figgers that if we was to 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



5i 



take a bunch of bonds up there, we could 
sell 'em easy, 'cause there wouldn't be no 
competition, an' plenty of gold an' money 
jest itchin' to be invested in good solid se- 
curities, where it would be workin' fer a 
man, an' not layin' around idle — jest like 
you was tellin' us." 

"That's right," agreed Black John. "Men 
like us is smart 'nough to see them things, 
an' grab the bull by the horns before the 
horse is stole, as the Good Book says. But 
how come you showed up on Halfaday? 
Dawson's a bigger camp. There's lots of 
dust in Dawson." 

"We're goin' on to Dawson," replied the 
man. "We jest stopped in here 'cause we 
heard, from them fellas at Selkirk, that 
you boys had a lot of dust an' bills on hand, 
an' we figgered to give you a chanct to in- 
vest it, if you wanted to. We figgered 
we'd be doin' you boys a favor, besides 
doin' some business fer ourselves, to boot." 

"Tha's right," agreed Black John. 
"What's bonds worth, a dozen? I might 
buy some." 

"They ain't sold by the dozen," grinned 
the man. "Each bond is sold separate — 
accordin' to what it's worth. Like — a 
thousan', er five thousan', er ten thousan'. 
Each one has got the amount printed onto 
it, an* what company issued it, an' what's 
backin' it, in the way of property — an' all 
that stuff. It's all printed right on the 
bond where you kin read it yourself before 
you buy it. There ain't no chanct fer a 
fake." 

Black John seemed to lose interest. "I 
guess you boys better go on down to Daw- 
son," he said. "I wouldn't care to piffle 
around buyin' bonds one to a time. An' 
read each one out before I bought it. Hell, 
if I want to read, we've got books on Half- 
aday — Cush, here, has got a Bible, an' I've 
got a law book damn near a foot thick. 
You prob'l ain't got enough bonds to inter- 
est me, nohow. If you had a job lot I 
could pick up reasonable, I might talk to 
you." 

Fulton smiled. "We've got half a mil- 



lion dollars' worth," he said. "Would that 
interest you any?" 

"Half a million dollars !" exclaimed Black 
John. "Cripes — them bonds runs up into 
Aggers! Trot 'em out — let's look 'em 
over." 

AS THE two men stooped to open their 
■* *• packs, Old Cush, by means of frantic 
head-shaking, and frowning grimaces, 
sought to dissuade the huge man from 
dealing with the strangers. But his efforts 
were futile, and presently the bar was deco- 
rated with an assortment of official looking 
documents in green, and yellow, and 
brown. 

"Look a there, Cush!" exclaimed Black 
John, indicating the array with a wave of 
his hand. "Ain't them the purtyest layout 
of bonds you ever seen? Cripes — anyone 
could tell, jest by lookin' at 'em that there 
ain't nothin' phony about them bonds. 
They're the real article. You better git 
in on this, Cush. I'm goin' to take a bunch 
of them yeller ones. They look important 
as hell!" 

"I wouldn't have nothin' to do with 'em," 
growled Cush. "An' if you've got any 
sense, you won't either." 

"There you go," exclaimed the big man 
impatiently. "Always tryin' to obstruct 
civilization ! If I was as gloomy minded as 
what you be, I'd of strangled myself at 
birth, an' saved a whole lifetime of misery ! 
Why, jest lookin' at all that there wealth 
spread out on the bar makes me feel happy. 
Fill 'em up again — an' then open up the 
shafe, Cush! I'm a-goin' to make an in- 
vestment." 

Old Cush's lips straightened into a firm 
white line beneath his yellow mustache, as 
he reached beneath the bar and picked up 
the bung-starter, which he balanced in his 
hand with a certain devoted regard, as he 
eyed Black John through narrowed lids. 

"I ain't openin' no safe — an' you ain't 
buyin' no bonds," he announced in a flat, 
cold tone. "Not with no dust er money 
you've got in that safe, you ain't. Yer 
licker's went back on you today, John. Yer 



SHORT STORIES 



drunker'n a fool, right now. It ain't none 
of my business how drunk you git, but 
when it comes to blowin' all yer money into 
a lot of junk like that, I'm agin it. An' if 
you go makin' a move to open the safe, yer- 
self, I'll knock you cold as a wedge with 
this bung-starter — an' when you come to, 
you'll thank me." 

BLACK JOHN'S brows drew into a 
frown as he eyed the determined fig- 
ure that stood behind the bar. Surprise 
was mingled with wholesome respect, as 
his eyes dropped from the other's face to 
the weapon that he fondled most caress- 
ingly. Long years of professional practise 
had made Old Cush a past master in the 
technique of the bung-starter, and Black 
John had seen too many demonstrations 
of his skill on the skulls of obstreperous 
customers, to ask for any of it on his own 
account. He sought, by means of soft 
words, to win the other over. 

"Aw, lishen, Cus', I ain' drunk. I know 
damn well I ain' ! Gripes — I couldn't talk 
buishness — businish, if I was drunk, could 
I? Course I couldn't. Cm on — open up 
the shafe, like a good fella, and lemme have 
some money. You wouldn' she all them 
good bonds go to waste, would you? They'd 
look as important as hell in the shafe, along 
with the dust an' bills." 

"They ain't goin' to look important in 
this safe," replied Cush obstinately, "an' 
you ain't goin' to git no money out of it, 
neither." 

The big man switched to bluff and blus- 
ter. "Why, you damn ol' badger! It's my 
money I want out of that safe — not yourn. 
An' I'm entitled to it, too. Open up, now 
— er damn if I don't climb the bar an' git 
it!" 

"You'll sleep a while before you do," 
replied Cush dryly, waggling the bung- 
starter a bit as he rolled back his sleeve 
suggestively. 

Black John assumed an air of outraged 
dignity. Ignoring Cush, he turned to the 
others. "It's pitiful, gents," he said, "how, 
in the hour of need, a man's friends goes 



back on 'em. Look at him — my pal — 
standin' there with a bung-starter ready to 
brain me, jest 'cause I want to draw a little 
of my own money out of his shafe! But, 
gents, to hell wish him! Yesher — to hell 
wish him an' his shafe, too! I got some 
spare change to buy bonds wish. Got it 
right over to my cabin. You wait right 
here, gents, an' I'll go git it. Firs' though, 
we'll have a li'l drink all 'roun'. Cush 
shays I'm drunk — hell, I'll shtart in an' 
show'm how to git drunk ! An' I'll buy all 
yer damn bonds, to boot. I know a busin- 
ish man when I she one — an' I'm him. I 
c'n tell it jest by lookin' in the glash. Ain' 
I a bushiness man?" 

"Sure you are I" exclaimed Fulton, turn- 
ing to Cush. "Fill 'em up, barkeep. I'm 
buyin' this one. He's all right — let him 
alone." 

"I don't give a damn how drunk he gits," 
said Cush, "an' I guess he won't buy no 
hell of a lot of bonds with what cash he's 
got in his cabin. Let him blow it, if he 
wants to — but he don't get a damn cent out 
of the safe." 

"Don' need no money out of yer damn 
shafe !" retorted Black John, swallowing his 
liquor. "Got plenty over to my cabin. You 
wait an' she !" 

CROSSING the floor unsteadily, Black 
John disappeared to return a few min- 
utes later with a bulky package done up in 
brown paper. Setting the package on the 
bar, he undid the wrapping, and three pairs 
of eyes widened in surprise as Old Cush 
and the two strangers gazed at the neat 
packets of bills, held together with rubber 
bands. 

"There she ish, gents — jes' a li'l loosh 
change I keep on me in case I might wan' 
it. Fifty thousand, in good paper money ! 
Fifty thousan' dollars, gents — bring on yer 
damn bonds !" 

Eagerly the two strangers began sorting 
over their bonds, and presently Fulton 
handed Black John several of them. "There 
you be," he said. "Fifty thousand dollars 
worth, an' no charge fer accrued interest.", 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



$3 



"Fer what?" asked Black John, fum- 
bling the bonds over as he examined them. 

"Accrued interest, they call it. You see, 
them bonds has already earnt some interest 
sence they was issued, an' it belongs to the 
one that owns 'em. But we ain't chargin' 
you fer that. We're sellin' 'em at face 
value — you keep the interest." 

"Shore, thash all right," said Black John, 

"but all of 'em only adds up to fifty thou- 
>» 

san . 

"Well — that's what you claimed you've 
got there in bills. Fifty thousan' in bonds, 
fer fifty thousan' in bills — that's fair 
enough, ain't it — with us throwin' in the 
interest?" 

Black John shook his head. "Nope — 
that ain't the way I do businesh. Them 
bills ish real money. Bonds ain' money — 
they're jes' bonds. I gotta make a profit. 
Man would be a damn fool to give fifty 
thousan' in money fer fifty thousan' in 
bonds." 

"Tell you what we'll do — we'll throw in 
an extry ten thousan'. There's a bargain 
fer you! Sixty thousan' in A Number 
One, gilt-edged bonds fer only a lousy fifty 
thousan' in cash." 

"You talk kind of big, don't you? Lousy 
fifty thousan' ! By God, fifty thousan' dol- 
lars in cash money ain' lousy — no matter 
how you look at it. It's important money, 
an' you'd think so, too, if you'd toiled fer 
it, like I did!" 

"I didn't mean it that way — it was jest a 
way of speakin', to show you what kind of 
a bargain you was gittin'." 

"Yeah, tha's what I think, too — lousy 
bargain ! Tha's right. Come on agin with 
them bonds, if you want to do businesh 
with me!" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Mean? I mean keep shovin' them bonds 
over, till I git my money's worth. What 
you think I mean?" 

TfULTON frowned. "What kind of a 
bargain do you expect? We offered to 
throw in an extry ten thousan'." 



"Yeah — an' you ain' started to throw in. 
Come on — keep 'em comin'." 

"Tell you what we'll do — seein' you've 
got the ready cash handy. We'll sell 'em 
to you at seventy-five cents on the dollar. 
There's a bargain for you — seventy-five 
thousan' in bonds fer fifty thousan' in 
cash!" 

"That's a li'l better — but not nowheres 
near good enough," replied Black John, 
shaking his head. "Yer willin'ness to part 
with 'em cheap, kind of warns me that 
there's somethin' shady about 'em. The 
bonds theirselves looks genuine — but yer 
title to 'em is ondoubtless open to suspi- 
cion. They might even be the product of 
some crime." 

"Listen," said Fulton, scowling, "I'll 
give it to you straight. We ain't reg'lar 
bond salesmen, like I told you. We got 
holt of this stuff on a deal that was a little 
shady. The bonds is good as gold. We 
figgered we could git rid of 'em fer ready 
cash up here in the gold country, an' like 
I told you, we was headin' fer Dawson. But 
when we heard about here, we come on up, 
figgerin' that some of you would know how 
to git rid of 'em, an' we could, mebbe, git 
a better price than we could in Dawson. 
Tell you what I'll do— an' it's the best I 
kin do on 'em. Give me fifty cents on the 
dollar an' take 'em. At that price mebbe 
yer friend, here, would go in with you — 
two hundred an' fifty thousan' fer a half a 
million in bonds. You double yer money — 
not to say nothin' about the interest." 

"I wouldn't have 'em at no price," said 
Cush. "Buyin' hot bonds ain't in my line 
— never was an' never will be." 

Black John listened to Cush's dictum 
with drunken gravity. "Cush is right," he 
announced. "We might find ourshelf in a 
hell of a lot of trouble. Guesh I don' wan' 
none of 'em neither." Deliberately he be- 
gan to arrange the packets of bills on the 
brown paper, preparatory to doing them 
up. "Damn shite better to have fifty thou- 
san' in good honest bills than half a mil" 
lion in bonds that might git you in jail. 



54 



SHORT STORIES 



Better take 'em on down to Dawson, boys, 
an' peddle 'em down there." 

"D OTH strangers were eyeing the money 
avidly as Black John drew the paper 
around it. 

"Hold on!" Fulton cried. "It's a damn 
hold-up— but I'll tell you what we'll do! 
We need the cash, bad. Fifty thousan' is 
nothin' but chicken feed, side of half a mil- 
lion in bonds — but it's a stake. If the play 
is runnin' like we hear tell of in Dawson, 
we kin hit there with fifty thousan' an' 
clean up a million with the cards. Shove 
us the money an' take the bonds — all of 
'em! Half a million fer fifty thousan'! 
Ten cents on the dollar is all they're costin' 
you. You'll make four hundred and fifty 
thousan' profit — besides the interest. It's 
jest like you stole 'em!" 

"We-e-e-1," hesitated Black John, "at 
that prishe mebbe a man might take a 
chanct." 

"Course you kin take a chanct — only it's 
a sure thing fer you. We're the ones that's 
takin' the chanct — we've got to git our 
money out of the cards. If it worn't that 
we figger we kin git it back, we wouldn't 
let them bonds go at no discount whatso- 
ever. Here's the bonds — all of 'em." 

"All right," agreed Black John. "It's a 
deal. There's yer money — count it, while I 
figger up these bonds. Then we'll all know 
we ain't be'n short-changed." 

A quarter of an hour later, bonds and 
hills having been checked to the satisfac- 
tion of all concerned, the two men took 
their departure. 

"Sho long !" called Black John from the 
doorway, as the two shoved off in the 
canoe. "You boys be careful you don' take 
no wooden nickels!" 

Returning to the bar he stood contem- 
plating the pile of bonds while Old Cush 
scowled in silent disapproval. "By God," 
he exclaimed suddenly, "I know'd there 
was somethin' wrong! Them birds fergot 
to put them slips back in the name-can! 
What was them names they draw'd out, 
Cush? I'll write out some new slips." 



/~\LD CUSH snorted his disgust. 

"Somethin' wrong — a couple of strips 
of paper out of a can ! Sometimes, John, 
you kin be the damndest fool I ever seen. 
Most gen'lly when you git soused you've 
got some sense left in yer head — damn 
little, sometimes, but some — but this time 
— fifty thousan' dollars in cold cash fer a 
lot of bonds that's so sizzlin' hot that 
they're sendin' out special patrols of the 
Mounted fer 'em! Ain't you got no sense, 
at all ? Take it from me — yer goin' to come 
out of this drunk with a hell of a head- 
ache!" 

White teeth showed through the black 
beard, and suddenly Old Cush was aware 
that the drunken stare had disappeared 




from the blue eyes that twinkled into his 
own. "What do you mean — cold cash?" 
he asked. "By God, when them boys be- 
gin shovin' out that cash in Dawson, 
they're goin' to find out it's a damn sight 
hotter'n them bonds ever thought of bein' !" 

"You mean to tell me you ain't drunk — 
an' ain't be'n all along?" demanded Cush. 

"I don't reelect of tellin' you I ain't 
drunk," grinned the other. "Where'n hell 
did you git the idee that I was? Cripes — 
I ain't had more'n a dozen er fifteen drinks. 
What would I be drunk fer?" 

"Well, you talked an' acted drunk as 
hell." 

"Oh, shore — I done that fer* to give them 
birds a chanct to unload them bonds onto 
me. It was jest a little play actin', Cush. 
You know I always wanted to be an actor. 
Sometimes we'll go to work and stage a 
real drayma." 

"Like hell we will! We've had enough 
of yer damn draymas, as it is ! If anything 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



55 



had went wrong with them other ones you 
pulled off, I'd of been in a hell of a fix! 
What you goin' to do with them damn 
bonds, now you've got 'em?" 

"Don't you rec'lect that I promised Cor- 
poral Downey, I'd git 'em fer him, if they 
show'd up on Halfaday?" 

"Yeah — but it looks like you went in 
kind of deep, jest to do Downey a favor. 
When all's said an' done, John — fifty 
thousan' dollars is fifty thousan' dollars." 

"Oh, hell," replied Black John, "what's 
-little amounts like them, amongst friends ?" 

OLD CUSH eyed the other narrowly. 
"Where'd you git all that money, 
John? An' what d'you mean about it bein' 
hot?" 

"It's what you might call the emolument 
of virtue — havin' to do with them three 
fellas that One Armed John told us was in 
Olson's shack, down the crick. I mis- 
trusted they was malefactors of some kind, 
so I took that there prospectin' trip. In 
the course of my peregrinations " 

"What in hell's them? Can't you talk no 
English, at all?" 

"As I was sayin'," continued Black John, 
ignoring the interruption, "whilst I was on 
that trip, I was instrumental in the pre- 
vention of a crime, as a reward fer which 
meritorious act I took over that money. 
An' it wasn't till Downey came up here the 
other day huntin' fer these bonds that I 
realized, from somethin' he told me, that 
them partic'lar bills was ondesirable prop- 
erty to have. An' them fellas will be find- 
in' it out, too, jest about the time they be- 
gin shuckin' it out around Dawson. Guess 
I'll jest drop down an' watch the fun. Be- 
sides, I've got to fetch Corporal Downey 
them bonds. You know, Cush, up here 
we've got to work hand in glove with the 
police." 

Ill 

HELLO, John— back agin already?" 
Curley, the genial bartender of the 
Tivoli Saloon in Dawson, greeted the huge 



man who faced him across the bar, as he set 
out a bottle and two glasses. "You folks 
can't be very busy up on Halfaday, the way 
yer runnin' back an' forth." 

"Oh, we're busy, all right," replied Black 
John as he filled his glass. "But, cripes, 
you can't expect a man to spend his whole 
life in toil. Time a man cranks a windlass, 
an' shovels gravel eighteen, twenty hours a 
day, over a period of years, he's entitled to 
a little vacation, now an' then." 

"Yeah," grinned Curley, "but they tell 
me there's a hell of a lot of windlasses you 
never cranked — an' a hell of a lot of gravel 
you never shovelled." 

"Shut up, an' have another," laughed 
Black John, laying a bill on the bar. Pick- 
ing up the bill, Curley glanced at its num- 
ber, and dropping it into the till, laid the 
change on the bar. 

"What the hell's the matter?" queried 
Black John. "Think it's counterfeit, or 
somethin' ?" 

"No, it ain't that it might be queer. But 
ever sence Chase was kidnapped, an' the 
Consolidated paid out that fifty thousan' 
to git him back, we're s'posed to look at 
the numbers on all bills. We've got a list 
of 'em a yard long there in the till. When 
we take in a bill that might be one of 'em, 
we check it with the list. This here bill 
you give me was only five numbers long, 
so it couldn't of been on the list. It's a 
cinch that some time or other, somewheres, 
them bills is bound to show up — an' the 
police is hopin' it'll be here. The kidnap- 
pin' bein' in their territory, they'd like to 
grab off the ones that done it. You was 
the one that found Chase an' fetched him 
back — where do you think they're at?" 

"Well," replied Black John, "that would 
be hard to say. Of course, they might have 
hit fer the outside. But then ag'in, they 
might jest be layin' low till the stink blow'd 
away. I don't claim to be no authority on 
them criminal matters, but off hand I'd say 
that them bills would begin showin' up 
most any time, now." 

"How long you goin' to be here?" 

"Oh, not more'n a night er so. I jest 



56 



SHORT STORIES 



run down fer a couple of sessions of stud." 

Curley grinned. "Old Bettles says you're 
the world's worst stud player. He claims 
you stayed through four or five stiff raises 
with a pair of deuces, back to back, an' him 
with one deuce showin' all along — and 
then you ketched the case deuce fer yer last 
card, an' beat him out of a hell of a big 
pot." 

"Yeah, that's the way of it," chuckled the 
big man. "Trouble with most folks, they 
ain't got no faith in deuces jest 'cause 
they're little. Guess I'll set down by the 
table, yonder, an' read the paper till the 
boys drifts in." 

T) LACK JOHN, taking the Ladue 
Creek shortcut, had timed his arrival 
in Dawson to correspond as closely as pos- 
sible to that of Fulton and Whitney, who 
would reach the big camp by way of the 
White River and the Yukon. 

Thus, it was that, some two hours after 
he seated himself, he watched with interest 
through a small hole punched in the news- 
paper that concealed his face, as the two 
men entered, strode to the bar, lowered 
their packs to the floor, and demanded re- 
freshment. He saw Curley set out the 
bottle and glasses, and saw Fulton lay a 
bill on the bar, in payment. He saw Curley 
pick up the bill, glance at it, and turn 
toward the till. Then, as the men filled 
their glasses, he noted that the bartender 
laid the bill on the back bar, counted out 
some change, which he placed on the bar 
before Fulton, then, with a casual air, 
turned his back upon the two, removed a 
long slip of paper from the till, and once 
more consulted the number on the bill. 

A grin twitched the corners of Black 
John's lips as he watched Curley beckon to 
Joe, the porter, whisper a few words into 
his ear, and then turn toward the two cus- 
tomers with a genial invitation to have one 
on the house — as Joe slipped unobtrusively 
out the back door. 

It was evident, during the next half-hour, 
that the two strangers found themselves 



amid congenial surroundings. The house 
matched their purchases, drink for drink, 
and roars of laughter greeted the pithy but 
unprintable stories that bandied back and 
forth across the bar. 

Then Black John drew the newspaper a 
bit closer for better concealment, as Cor- 
poral Downey stepped into the room and, 
crossing to the bar, paused behind the two. 
Receiving an almost imperceptible nod 
from Curley, the young officer laid a hand 
lightly upon the shoulder of each. 

"I want to have a little talk with you 
men down to headquarters," he said. 

The two turned swiftly. "What the 
hell !" exclaimed Whitney. 

"There's some mistake here," blustered 
Fulton, truculently. 

"Maybe," replied Downey. "I don't 
claim to be the man that never makes 'em. 
If there is, you fellows have got nothin' to 
fear. Until we find out, though, you're 
both under arrest for the kidnappin' of 
Frederick Chase, an' possession of the ran- 
som money." 

"Kidnappin'!" scoffed Fulton, with a 
laugh that Black John interpreted as one 
of vast relief. "Yer crazy as hell ! Where 
was this kidnappin' pulled off — an' when?" 

"Oh, a couple of months ago — right here 
in Dawson." 

"That lets us out. We never seen Daw- 
son till .today !" 

"Maybe," admitted Downey. "Come 
along with me, an' we'll find out." 

"Sure we'll go," agreed Fulton with 
alacrity. "Why the hell wouldn't we? We 
ain't got nothin' to fear. Come on, cop — 
let's get it over with." 

IV 

AN HOUR later, Black John rose from 
the table, yawned, stretched prodigi- 
ously, and stepped to the bar. "I'm buyin' 
one," he announced, as Curley turned from 
the back bar to face him. 

"Hell's fire, John — you been here all the 
time? I'd plumb fergot you. Where the 
hell was you at?" 

10 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



57 



"Oh, I set down over there to the table 
to read the paper, but I might have got 
kind of sleepy, an' took a little snooze." 

"An' you didn't see what come off?" 

"What come off? There couldn't be no 
hell of a lot come off, er I'd of woke up. I 
ain't no sound sleeper. It don't pay to be." 

"There wasn't no excitement. It all 
comes off nice and quiet. Downey slipped 
in here an' pinched them kidnappers !" 

"Well," grinned Black John, "you 
wouldn't expect him to let 'em run around 
loose, would you? That's what police is 
paid fer — to pinch miscreants like them." 

"Yes, sir — two guys come in an' ordered 
the drinks, an' one of 'em lays a bill on 
the bar, an' I checks the number of it with 
that list, an' damn if it wasn't one of 'em ! 
So I slips Joe the word to go fetch Downey, 
an' he come, an' pinched 'em both." 

"Good work," approved Black John. "It 
looks like you both done yer duty." 

"You bet! Damn cusses like them had 
ort to git pinched. Chances is, if the Con- 
solidated hadn't paid that money, like they 
told 'em to, they'd of knocked Chase off. 
What'll they git fer it, John? What's the 
law on kidnappin'?" 

"A term of years," answered the other. 
"I can't say off hand, jest how long. But 
it'll give 'em plenty of time to think things 
over." 

"Damn if you wasn't right — about them 
bills bein' about due to show up. How the 
hell could you tell?" 

"Oh, jest common sense — an' mebbe 
some slight insight into the workin's of the 
criminal mind. Cripes, anyone could of 
doped that out." 

"Yeah?" retorted Curley, a vast respect 
showing in his eyes. "Well, no wonder 
there ain't no crime on Halfaday! Gosh, 
John — you'd ort to be in the police!" 

"No, no! I wouldn't make a good po- 
liceman. Hell, a policeman's got to be 
smart." Passing around the end of the bar, 
Black John retrieved his light pack and 
slung a strap to his shoulder. "Guess I'll 
jest percolate around a while. If the boys 

10 



drops in tell 'em I'll be back. Tell Bettles 
he better be practisin' up on his stud." 

"DLACK JOHN, as was his privilege, 
opened the door of Corporal Dow- 
ney's office at detachment headquarters of 
the Mounted and stepped into the room, to 
find the young officer, his desk top cov- 
ered with bills, and a long strip of type- 
written numbers in his hand. 

"Hello, Downey!" he greeted. "Cripes 
it must be pay day!" 

"Yeah," grinned the officer, "an' I 
draw'd my salary fer the next twenty-five 
years in advance, eh ? Do you know what 
this stuff is?" 

"I might hazard a guess that it's money." 

"It's money, all right! It's the money 
the Consolidated paid over to the kidnap- 
pers to get Chase back." 

"Well, well! So you got it back, eh? 
Good work, Downey ! Did you git the kid- 
nappers along with it? I run acrost 'em, 
you remember, when they had Chase up on 
Halfaday. I wouldn't have no compunc- 
tions about helpin' identify sech damn 
scoundrels as them, because, by fetchin' 
Chase up there, they might have jeopard- 
ized the morals of our crick." 

"I don't think you could identify these 
two that had the money," replied Downey. 
"I had Chase in here a few minutes ago, 
and he said he'd never seen these men. He 
definitely stated that they were not the 
ones who held him prisoner. Kidnap gangs 
work like that. The ones that do the 
snatchin' an' holdin' ain't the ones that 
handles the money. They work it that way 
so that in case they're picked up passin' 
the stuff, the victim can't identify 'em." 

"Ain't they smart?" grinned Black John. 
"Why, if they'd put all them brains into 
honest pursuits, they'd prob'ly do well." 

"They're smart, all right," replied Dow- 
ney, "but they ain't quite smart enough. 
They overlooked the fact that possession of 
this money is a criminal offense of itself, 
and to any reasonable jury the fact that 
they had it would link them up with the 
kidnappin'. Here's how I've doped it out. 



58 



SHORT STORIES 



You remember, you told me that you fol- 
lowed the man who had this money up the 
Yukon, but failed to overtake him?" 

"Shore, I remember that." 

"Well, he went on up past the mouth of 
the White, where these two were prob'ly 
waitin' for him. Then they took over the 
money. An' the chances are they knocked 
off this bird an' the other one — the two 
that done the snatchin' — because these two 
I've got had every damn cent of the fifty 
thousan'." 

"Tch, tch, tch! Don't it beat hell how 
some folks carries on? It's a wonder to 
me that them damn crooks trusts one an- 
other out of their sight !" 

"I'm mighty glad I picked these birds up, 
John— -as much for your sake, as for the 
Consolidated's." 

"My sake? Cripes, Downey — I'd of got 
along, if you'd never ketched 'em." 

YEAH," grinned Downey, "but if I 
hadn't picked up these fellows with 
that money, I'd have always held a sneakin' 
suspicion that you had it. You see, I was 
never quite satisfied that you didn't lie to 
me when you said you never overtook that 
bird goin' upriver. I figured you had over- 
took him, an' made him fork over the bills. 
Of course, I never could have proved it — 
but jest the same I'd have always thought 
it. I'm damn glad that this clears you of 
even that suspicion." 

"Well, so'm I, Downey— if that's the 
way you felt about it. Cripes, I never had 
no idee you'd think I'd lie to you! How 
about givin' me the chanct to look these 
birds over, anyway? You see, they might 
of been hidin' out on Halfaday, too— an' I 
never connected 'em with the crime. 
Strangers comes and goes, an' a man. 
wouldn't know who was mixed up in it, if 
they kep' away from them others." 

"That's so," agreed Downey. "Wait 
till I call Constable Peters to watch this 
stuff, an' we'll step into the cell room." 

"I s'pose they denied they know'd any- 
thin' about the kidnappin', eh?" 



"Sure they did. However, when I 
questioned them about the possession of the 
money, they were mighty vague, an' wound 
up by claimin' they found it in a cache." 

WHEN Peters appeared, Black John 
followed Corporal Downey into the 
cell room, where the two prisoners sat in 
adjoining iron barred cages. Both stood 
up and paled perceptibly at the sight of 
Black John. 

"There they are," said Downey. "Have 
you ever seen 'em before?" 

According the men scarcely a glance, 
Black John swung his light pack to the 
floor in the little passageway before the 
cells, and turned suddenly upon the officer. 
"By gosh, Downey!" he cried suddenly, 
"here I be, foolin' around like this, an' 
plumb fergot what I come clean down from 
Halfaday to fetch you." Fumbling in his 
pack, he drew forth a sizable packet, which 
he extended toward the officer. "Here's 
them bonds you was inquirin' about up to 
Cush's that day. Half a million dollars' 
worth of 'em; they're all there — count 
em. 

"You mean," cried Downey, eagerly 
seizing the packet, and cutting the cord 
that bound it, "you located those bonds? 
The ones that were stolen in that ex- 
press robbery?" 

"I wouldn't be surprised an' them's the 
ones," replied Black John. "They're 
bonds — an' the amount of 'em checks with 
what you claimed was stole. An' by the 
way, Downey, didn't you claim there was 
a murder connected with that robbery?" 

"Sure there was. A damn dirty murder, 
too. They never gave the poor devil of a 
messenger a chance. They'll sure swing 
for that job, when we lay hands on 'em!" 

There was a movement in one of the 
cells, and Downey looked up from his 
scrutiny of the bonds to encounter the pale 
face of Fulton. 

"Hey, Corp'rl," said the man huskily, 

"we want to come clean on that kidnappin' 

job. We was in on it, all right. We lied 

10 



BLACK JOHN BUYS SOME BONDS 



59 



to you, but we been talkin' it over — an' we 
decided to plead guilty." 

"All right," said the officer, "I'll take yer 
statements, later." 

HE TURNED to give Black John a 
rousing thump on the back with the 
flat of his hand. "By gosh, John — you 
don't know how glad I am to get hold of 
these securities! But how about the men 
that had 'em. Did you bring them down?" 

"Nope," replied Black John, "I didn't. 
You know damn well, Downey, that I 
never had nothin' to do with arrestin' any- 
one — er even squealin' on 'em. It ain't 
ethical, an' I wouldn't have nothin' to do 
with it. If you think them men's on Haifa- 
day, an' you kin locate 'em — go to it. You 
won't be neither helped nor hindered when 
you git there. I promised you I'd try an' 
locate them bonds if they showed up on the 
crick — an' I done so." 

"You sure did, John — an' I thank you 
for it. But my thanks don't stack up very 
big beside what you've got comin'. It jest 
goes to show that it pays to be honest. Sir 
Henry Billson has posted a reward of a 



hundred thousan' dollars in cash fer the re- 
turn of those bonds before October first — 
the date when the merger deal expires. An' 
it all goes to you." 

"Well, well," grinned Black John. "That 
change'U shore come handy." 

"Oh — yes — how about these two fellows 
— did you ever see 'em before?" 

Black John eyed the two white-faced 
men deliberately, and subjected them to 
long and careful scrutiny. "No," he said, 
shaking his head in a slow negative. "No 
— I can't say that I ever laid eyes on either 
one of 'em — an' I've got a good mem'ry fer 
faces, too." 

"Come on, then," said' Downey, turning 
to lead the way back to the office. "I want 
to wire Vancouver about these bonds." 

As he was about to follow the officer, 
Black John turned a solemn face toward 
the two men in the cells. "There's an old 
sayin', my men," he boomed sententiously, 
"that honesty is the best policy. If you 
two had learnt to live moral, you wouldn't 
be where yer at now. Jest remember that 
— when they turn you loose twenty, thirty 
years hence. It'll do you good." 




In the next issue- 



WAR OF THE 
BRANDING 
IRON 

A Complete Novel 
of Range Feuds 
by 

Charles W. 
Tyler 

November 25th 
SHORT STORIES 



10 



The Joke Was Certainly on Someone in That Colony 
of Jaded Men Beyond the Horizon's Rim 



Murder on Malitonga 

By ROBERT H. ROHDE 

Author of "Beyond Last Water," "HeWs Annex," etc. 

I approach the sky seaward was altogether 

black. 

SOMEONE — of course! — was down Barefoot, invisible within the deep-blue 
there by the dark lagoon, waiting fold of the robe he had flung over his 
for her. Before he saw the man pajamas when he heard her stealing out of 
himself, Safforth could see the their bungalow above, Safforth was as sober 
beacon glow of his cigarette. The now as if yesterday had not been mail 
night's only star, that tell-tale cigarette day on Malitonga, remittance day for him. 
had been; when it sparked to earth at her An icy rage filled him. As he trailed 

60 jo 



MURDER ON MALITONGA 



6t 



her, his hand dropped into that weighted 
pocket of the robe, closed on the gun he 
had snatched up. 

Not surprisingly, the man she was tryst- 
ing with at two in the morning, was Craig. 
Who else? 

Old Ben Lark, pressing sixty, had 
thought left at his weathered age for only 
three things terrestrial — pearls, money, 
rum. Schruyn, the Dutchman who kept 
the hotel, might have a roving eye ; but as 
certainly that alert brown Nuolana of his 
had too sharp a one for any dalliance to 
have escaped. Jollett, the ex-detective in- 
spector pensioned down to the islands from 
Auckland, was not only professedly but 
credibly a confirmed woman-hater — a rhino 
of a man, as fond as Ban Lark of his 
noggin. And except for Craig, these were 
the only whites now on the island. 

Craig, who had been something or other 
with the American mining company that 
had flourished for a brief day on Malitonga, 
then gone suddenly sosh, was young and 
unattached. The sort that a woman, even 
in a spot less isolated, might find attractive. 
He drank a bit, but only a bit ; and with 
Kay, Safforth grimly recognized, that 
might very well stand nowadays near the 
apex of masculine attractions. So then! 

CLOSE up to them, blended into the 
sable sky, any light sound he may 
have made lost in the grumble of surf on 
the ringing reef, Safforth came to ah abrupt 
halt, froze. Craig, just beyond the shore- 
line fringe of palms, had struck a match. 

A lucky match. Safforth's finger had 
been a- jitter on the trigger; in another 
instant, except for that diverting flame, he 
would have squeezed it. 

Kay had taken a cigarette from Craig. 
He was lighting it for her, lighting a fresh 
one for himself. He remarked, matter of 
fact: 

"Thought you'd make it. Sort of looked 
that way at midnight." 

The soft breeze carried Kay's voice to 
Safforth, clear as Craig's. 

"Yes; he's beastly drunk again. Was 



dead to the world the moment he fell into 
his bed." 

Safforth, hidden by a palm-trunk hard 
by, could have laughed then. Tension 
snapped with the impulse. His grip on 
the pistol relaxed. 

Not that he shouldn't, not that at an 
imminent moment he wouldn't, take Craig 
to account for the poaching — damned sum- 
marily to account. But why not hold off 
a bit? As it stood, the situation promised 
points. Tremendously, ironically amusing 
points. Such very proper people, these 
two, when they knew themselves observed 
— but what, for example, at two o'clock of 
a black morning? 

Thinly, cynically, Safforth smiled. Queer 
turnabout! Weeks ago he'd made up his 
mind about Kay, decided to chuck her. It 
had been just a question of how soon he'd 
tire of this lazy living on Malitonga. When 
he did tire, he had meant to strike for the 
mainland next schooner day and leave her 
stewing there to work out her own destiny. 

But now ! 

Safforth's smile drew in. 

FAR side of the palm, they had seated 
themselves. The blinking red ends of 
the two cigarettes were near together as 
Craig spoke. His voice was slower. 

"Had to see you. I mean, I've had a 
letter. At last, a job turns up. Rather 
better one than I could reasonably hope 
for, these times. It's in South America. 
Peru." 

One of the cigarettes — Kay's — bright- 
ened. It had been a long draw, Safforth 
could see. Then he had to strain to catch 
her words. They came wavery, low. 

"I — I'm glad for you, Neil. Naturally, 
you'll go." 

"It's that, or risk dry-rotting here an- 
other year. Maybe forever. Takes wire- 
pulling to land a decent engineering job in 
this depression. And the friends who 
pulled the Peruvian wires might not be so 
keen to pull others if I high-ball oppor- 
tunity now." 

"Right." She was trying for a hearti- 



62 



SHORT STORIES 



ness that didn't quite come off. "No use 
pretending that Malitonga will be the same 
without you. But sooner or later it had 
to be — good-by. We've always known it, 
haven't we ?" 

Craig took her up instantly, abruptly. 

"Have we?" 

The other cigarette glittered again, now 
with quick, jerky glowings that gave an 
effect of breathlessness. 

"Neil ! Certainly we have! Why, we 



"We faced facts — yes, when 'good-by' 
was a sail behind the horizon. But when 
it's with us, hull up, it's different, Kay. I 
simply can't leave you sunk on Malitonga. 
That's the short of it. Oh, I'm not forget- 
ting that you're still another man's wife. 
But — will you listen?" 

Her cigarette made a swift arc of nega- 
tion. Her voice faltered, "Absolutely, I 
will not!" And she listened. 

"This," Craig was hurrying on, "has 
been in the back of my mind a long, long 
while. Was there before I suspected I'd 
ever be feeling this way about any woman. 
I meant, 'way back yonder, to offer you 
the chance to pull out when I pulled out. 
Just on the basis, then, that you were an- 
other American — and stuck with something 
you'd probably had more than enough of. 
It would have been a loan, you understand. 
Straight loan. No strings." 

KAY'S cigarette was finished. She 
rubbed out its smoulder against coral ; 
and her changed tone, when the last spark 
was gone, told Safforth of the rubbing out 
of a few of those sovereign inhibitions of 
hers as well. Her voice warmed, steadied, 
speeded. 

"Dear, decent Neil — God, if it had only 
been you I found in Canberra last year 
this time!" 

Then in the same rush she was spilling 
it all. With little sobs choking in, the 
whole of it cascaded. That American show 
touring Australia; its eventual pancaking; 
the flight, in good melodramatic tradition, 
of the company manager with the tag-end 



of fhe company funds; Kay and her 
younger sister down to bedrock in Can- 
berra. 

She repeated bitterly, "But it couldn't 
have been Neil Craig then! No, this world 
isn't built that way. There was just Ger- 
ald Safforth, running through a few thou- 
sand inherited pounds and imagining he 
wanted to marry me. And little Connie, 
poor kid — it might've been the streets of 
Canberra for her if I hadn't flown at that 
chance to get her passage money for home." 

Craig murmured pityingly, "Poor kid — 
you!" He was closer to her, pleading. 
"Forget all that. Forget Safforth. For- 




get everything but — but better days ahead. 
You'll come, Kay? When the mail 
schooner calls on the up-trip, you'll come?" 

She took a moment's thought. Safforth 
could imagine her forehead puckering there 
in the darkness as it had puckered when he 
proposed coming out to the islands. It had 
been a Hobson's choice for her then, for 
she had no money of her own, not one 
friend in the whole Antipodes. Now? 

A chilly thin smile quirked Safforth's 
lips. He was amused again; amused by 
two things. He and Craig, husband and 
other man, both hanging on her answer — 
very good indeed! And Craig's fancying 
that he could take Mrs. Gerald Safforth 
off Malitonga without inviting, and evok- 
ing, catastrophic eventualities — that, all 
considered, was truly priceless. 



MURDER ON MALITONGA 



63 



KAY came to decision. "No, my dear." 
And that was a solid No. She fol- 
lowed it in the same flat voice. 

"It would be madness, Neil. Not that 
I'd put it past Gerald to walk out on me 
— but my walking out would be something 
else. He'd make trouble. He has a pistol, 
wouldn't hesitate to use it. No, no! My 
going on the Flamingo with you isn't to be 
thought of. Please, please, won't you see 
it?" 

With an edge of contempt, Craig said, 
"Safforth wouldn't have nerve to shoot. In 
a pinch he'd cave. He's yellow under- 
neath." 

At that moment death stood again at 
Craig's elbow. Safforth, at point-blank 
range, had dropped his hand to the pistol. 
Yellow? Hadn't he heard enough? Wasn't 
it just about time — spot time — for his 
lightning to strike? 

Behind him, inland, the screen door at 
the hotel closed with a whang. Nuolana's 
voice shrilled. 

"You hear, you two ol' whiska-barrel? 
You drink by yourself otha time. You 
leave my Schruyn be soba." 

On the lagoon shore, Craig gave a little 
laugh. 

"Lark and Jollett. Two-thirds of the 
active bar trade on Malitonga — the very 
cream of it. And listen to the woman!" 

From Kay, Safforth caught, "Well, aren't 
Nuolana and I sisters under the skin?" 
Then, "Know this, Neil. All of me— all 
of me that's mine — is yours. I'd follow 
you to America, to Peru — follow you to 
hell if you ever took a notion to head that 
way. But as for making a start on the 
Flamingo with you, I definitely won't 
chance it. Such as it is, there's law on the 
islands. On a showdown, it would hold 
you wrong and Gerald right. He'd have 
that to bank on." 

A second screen door whacked — the door 
of the mining-company bungalow across 
from the Safforths that Jollet had fallen 
heir to on his retirement from the Auck- 
land police department not so many months 
before their own arrival. Ben Lark, a 



moment after that, came picking his un- 
steady way down to the lagoon, his bright 
gasoline lantern whitening the night in a 
wide circle about him. 

THE two on the shore sat silent. Lark, 
as they must have well known, 
wouldn't be coming in their direction. His 
venerable pearling schooner, long years 
beached on a lagoon flat that had risen 
clear of tides to engulf her to the scuppers, 
was still his home. She lay beyond the 
bungalows, eastward. 

Lark went rocking along the spit. Pres- 
ently Safforth heard his feet thump on the 
deck that would never again lift to the 
South Sea swell, thump on the compan- 
ionway descending to that musty hole of a 
cabin. 

A squalid way of life, Ben Lark's; and 
yet, if he chose, he could be living like a 
lord. For the old fellow was not only 
solvent, but very much more than solvent. 
Already well-fixed when he drove his rot- 
ting hooker aground to take root inside 
Malitonga reef, he had made an amazingly 
good thing of it since in snapping up off- 
price pearls from the native divers. Now 
he boasted that at any given instant of call 
he could put his hand on ten thousand 
pounds sterling, or its equivalent — and that, 
weirdly, was literal fact. Old Ben's wealth, 
trusted neither to distant bank nor local 
hiding, was an easily portable wealth, al- 
ways upon his person. One could have 
said that he wore his fortune, for by settled 
habit he carried it snug in a money-belt. \ 

Safforth, staring toward the now lighted 
ports of the ex-windjammer, felt once 
more the electric tingle, the flash of pro- 
test, that thought of Ben Lark's belt never 
failed to set off. 

Once, unforgettably, he had had a 
glimpse into it — a time when Lark, very 
drunk, needed more funds than his pockets 
held to take up his monthly chit from 
Schruyn. Shades of Croesus, there had 
been the wherewithal of a lifetime cham- 
pagne binge in that sweaty loop of leather ! 
Given only that one kept off hazards of 



64 



SHORT STORIES 



green cloth and race meet, the means to 
buy years of London, years of Paris. The 
price of tailors, hotels, motors, dinners, 
theatres, night clubs, women ad lib. 

Careless wads of banknotes, clinking 
gold coins, the sheen of pearls that would 
bring more cash showering — keys to the 
great world, held unused and unusable by 
a dotard who lived and would die like a 
beachcomber on this Godforsaken atoll! 

EVIDENTLY Lark was turning in full- 
pack this morning. He must have 
screwed down the lantern's gas valve as 
he lurched off the companionway. The 
port-lights were white for only a moment. 
Then they were gray. Then black. The 
tropic night's dark curtain closed on spit 
and schooner. 

Craig spoke quietly. 
"I'd back myself to handle Mr. Gerald 
Safforth, whatever — but you win, Kay, so 
far as the Flamingo's concerned. Here's 
another idea. A sudden one — yes, and 
better one. If you're game to trust your- 
self to amateur navigation, hanged if I 
wouldn't make a stab at fetching Luahala 
on my own. Once we hit there, no trick 
at all getting on to Brisbane. And home !" 

"But Luahala, Neil — that's a good two 
hundred miles." 

"Two days and two nights, the way we'd 
go. Not more. This time of year we 
could count on fair wind, steady and 
strong, to get us there. Do you see, Kay, 
one of the crowd that quit Malitonga first 
schooner after the shut-down left a whale- 
boat behind. She's moored on the other 
side of the island and her gear — mast, 
mains'l, jib, compass, charts — is stowed 
away in the old tool-shed by Number One 
shaft. Mightn't be too comfortable, but 
certainly she'd take us to Luahala. Ought 
to, by Godfrey, for that's exactly where 
young Keene brought her from to Mali- 
tonga!" 

Once more a match flamed. It jeweled 
the ripples lapping at Craig's feet, fleetingly 
yellowed Kay's thoughtful profile. Safforth 



saw her chin come square as she took 
her light. 
"When?" she asked. 

"I could have the boat ready tomorrow 
night. Rigged. Water and food aboard. 
We'd shove off whenever you figured the 
coast clear. I'll get you to Luahala, never 
fear ; get you on to America. Then — well, 
there'd be Reno. Or quicker than Reno, 
you could run down to Mexico for one of 
those famous cash-and-carry divorces. 
Meanwhile — oh, I want it that way just 
as much as you do, Kay! — we play it as 
straight as we have from the start. A go ? 
Tomorrow night?" 

Her die was cast. Safforth heard her 
breathe, "Yes, Neil! Tomorrow night—- 
forever — yes!" 

With that she was in Craig's arms. 

Safforth's hand touched the pistol — no 
more than touched it, and came away. 
Strangely, his mind had flown off. Of a 
sudden he was thinking not of Kay, not 
of Craig, but of old Ben Lark. Lightning 
had struck, but another kind of lightning 
— a blaze in his brain. Clear as daylight, 
he might have ten thousand pounds out of 
this. If Craig and Kay were going, let 
them go! 

Tomorrow night, Lark would have 
drunk himself sodden again before he came 
down from Schruyn's. He'd be sleeping 
like a log, cabin hatch wide open. If he 
woke to find his pearls and his money 
gone, and Kay Safforth and Neil Craig 
gone, too — wouldn't the addition be as 
plain as two and two? 

What was the law term? Prima facie? 
Quite ! 

Oh, certainly, let them go! 

Safforth waited. When after a space 
they rose and walked slowly off along the 
shore, he slipped soundlessly inland and 
to bed. 

II 

THEY really meant to skip out. No 
question. Bright and early, Craig had 
been down tinkering at that dory. He had 



MURDER ON MALITONGA 



65 



stepped her mast, stayed it; was reeving 
the mains'l halyards when, toward noon, 
Safforth strolled along the lagoon. 

And Kay was another person than she 
had been at any time during the Malitonga 
months. Even another person, she seemed, 
than she had been during those first days 
in Canberra, before the windfall legacy 
melted away and it became a case of doing 
on two hundred a year. She had done 
things with her wavy brown hair that she 
hadn't bothered to do for weeks. The 
shadow was out of her eyes, the cloud gone 
from her brow. She hummed as she went 
about the bungalow, setting the bedrooms 
and the little breakfast veranda to rights. 

When Safforth started for the hotel and 
his morning spot of Scotch, she had no 
caustic comment. No word at all. Well, 
good enough. He, on his own part, would 
have no comment when she shoved off. 
Leave comment — after the fact — to Lark 
et al! 

For a while he watched Craig, but from 
a distance. Then he wandered across the 
island, a scant half mile from reef to reef 
at this bottle-neck end, to give Ben Lark's 
sand-swallowed schooner a look. 

Lark was on deck, naked to the waist, 
sloshing in a bucket, puffing and blowing. 
Huge, he looked bigger with his ragged 
shirt off than with it on. Bigger and in- 
finitely more formidable. For all his years 
of inactivity, all his rum-swigging, he 
wasn't fat like Jollett or bloated like 
Schruyn. His arms and shoulders were 
still mighty; his hairy chest was deep; 
gleaming, wet, his torso was like a punch- 
eon of stout oak. 

He bellowed at Safforth, waved, and 
Safforth, returning the wave, walked on. 
Things he had heard about Ben Lark be- 
gan to sift into his mind. Things as un- 
settling to think of as that amazingly 
surviving muscular machinery had been to 
behold. 

Along with his pile, Lark had made a 
reputation through the islands. He was 
known far and wide as a mauler. In his 
day a bucko mate, he had found that the 

10 



atolls bred men as tough as the square- 
riggers he had begun life in. Knifings and 
gunnings had been incidents of his rise. 
Once, on Luahala — Schruyn swore he had 
seen it — he had killed a man with his fists. 

"And ten minoots before dat," Schruyn 
had marveled, "you look at Ben and t'ink 
he is so far unter wetter he couldn't lift 
out from his chair !" 

No, it wouldn't do to have Lark waking 
up at a wrong moment. Hardly! 

Safforth, a little shaken by the picture 
that poignantly unpleasant thought con- 
jured, returned to fortify himself with fur- 
ther Scotch — and then, suddenly, it was 
all very simple. Jolly handily he could fix 
it so Ben Lark wouldn't wake up while 
that mossy hoard of his was moving the 
first ticklish few inches of its flight to the 
bazaars. Gray matter having functioned, 
it would be no trick at all. 

CRAIG came in after a space and got 
one of his American gin drinks. 
Lemon, sugar, sparing turn of the gin- 
crock, much warmish soda. He gave 
Safforth a nod and a brief, "Hullo" and 
stood off, as usual, to himself. 

"You rig Keene's cutter, huh ?" Schruyn 
said. With a wary eye on Nuolana, pass- 
ing into the hotel hinterlands after meticu- 
lously brooming the veranda, he splashed 
a drink from the crock and swooped it 
down. "V'y not? He wouldn't use her 
for a long time yet. My Gott, it's our 
bum luck dey don't ever reopen der 
mines !" 

"No telling if — or when." Craig blew 
off a thin, long trailer of cigarette smoke. 
"Yes, I rigged the whaleboat. Might as 
well be sailing around as sitting around. 
Just happened to think of her last night. 
A break in the monotony." 

Safforth, much pleased, poured a self- 
congratulatory peg at that. Quite obvi- 
ously, Craig hadn't said anything about 
quitting Malitonga — and if he hadn't, he 
wouldn't. Excellent ! 

From somewhere rearward piped that 
bos'n-whistle voice of Nuolana's. It was 



66 



SHORT STORIES 



coffee time for Schruyn. He waddled from 
behind his little bar and vanished. 

Safforth caught Craig's eye. Smiling, he 
drawled, "Must be no end monotonous. 
Chap alone, and all that. I've rather won- 
dered that you haven't taken in a house- 
keeper — like Schruyn. But I fancy it's a 
case of never knowing when you'll push 
on. 

Craig looked at him straight. 

"That's part of it, anyhow," he calmly 
agreed. Then he finished his drink, tossed 
another cool nod toward Safforth and 
walked out. 

IT WAS as predictable as the tide-turn 
that the entire white male population of 
Malitonga would be found assembled in the 
hotel bar within, or shortly after, the first 
hour of darkness. 

Island nights had been identical to date 
so far as Safforth's usual late-hour mist 
had permitted him to observe them, and 
this night was one more out of the same 
mold. There was just a single difference. 
Safforth's daylight drinking had been done, 
if not lightly, with judgment. There was 
no mist. He did not intend that there 
should be. 

Ben Lark came up from the lagoon about 
eight and caught Jollett napping in the 
doubly-roped hammock on his veranda. 
That suggested golden opportunity to 
Lark's very primitive sense of humor, and 
he proceeded to a pleasantry involving a 
wooden match. Business end out, Lark 
deftly implanted it between the sole and 
upper part of a vast, dangling shoe ; man- 
aging that without waking the sleeper. 
Then the match, ignited, burned down, 
and Jollett came out of slumberland and 
the hammock roaring. Ben Lark roared 
too. Safforth, looking across from the ho- 
tel, chuckled inwardly. This from Ben 
Lark now was roaring laughter. But to- 
morrow ! 

Strangers a scant year ago, today as 
much cronies as if a lifetime's intimacy lay 
behind them, Jollett and Lark descended 
on the bar. They scooped Safforth into 



their company ; and when Craig came along 
a while later, Safforth presented all out- 
ward signs of having fallen into his ac- 
customed nine o'clock haze. 

One drink again for Craig. He stood 
with it for half an hour. When Jollett and 
Lark and Schruyn settled down to their 
nightly muggins marathon, he shot another 
appraising glance at Safforth and eased 
out. 

Planted at a window table, Safforth saw 
him enter his bungalow and come out with 
a bulky package. There was, embarrass- 




ingly for Craig, a moon tonight. Heading 
toward the whaleboat with his burden, he 
went roundabout. Safforth smiled and 
gave a space to cheerful thought of the 
Continent. Those knobby fists shuffling 
the dominoes gave him no concern, not 
an instant's. Samson, before the plucking, 
would have been well shorn. 

Keeping foxily to shadow, Craig made 
several trips between lagoon and bungalow. 
Over the long course, they consumed hours. 
It was after midnight when he finally had 
all his cargo stowed. 

SOMETIMES he would come back to 
the bar, late, for a nightcap. He came 
tonight. Looked at the lay of the domi- 
noes ; looked at the unplayed hands ; looked, 
with a deeper interest, at Safforth. 

In the rear, Nuolana had Schruyn's 
scratchy gramophone going. It was an 
American record squawking now, a favor- 
ite of the brown woman's. Something 
sticky about a Johnny's wife running off 
with somebody else and his being terrific- 
ally cracked up over it. Countless repe- 

10 



MURDER ON MALITONGA 



67 



titibns had made that record the most 
loathsome to Safforth of all Nuolana's 
ghastly collection — but distinctly it fitted. 
He couldn't keep a glint out of his eyes 
as they met Craig's. The American, he 
saw, also had caught the words. He 
flushed. A little frown came and went. 
Then his jaw tightened and he returned 
his attention to the domino game. 
1 It was a moist game that grew noisier 
hand by hand. Safforth knew that Craig 
couldn't be enjoying it, but for once he 
appeared to be bent on seeing it through. 
Probably meant to hang on until he saw 
all white Malitonga tucked safely in for the 
night. 

When one o'clock had passed, Safforth, 
fingering that chemist's vial in his pocket, 
really began to watch his chance to expe- 
dite matters. The little bottle contained 
a powerful opiate, liquid and almost odor- 
less — quite odorless, on Safforth's test that 
afternoon, when in combination with alco- 
hol. He had first made the acquaintance 
of the drug more than a few years 
ago; since then he had never permitted 
himself to be without a supply of it. When 
a man took a few drops after an especially 
heavy joust of drinking there was never 
any nonsense with nerves. In short order 
he corked off, retreated comfortably into 
a sleep sure to last until frays had patched 
themselves — a sleep that a blast of dynamite 
directly alongside his bed wouldn't break. 

AT HALF past one, Safforth's oppor- 
tunity had arisen and had been 
grasped. Sparing Schruyn a trip to the 
bar, he had obliged with service. And 
very definitely he had got the contents of 
the vial into the proper glass. In another 
ten minutes old Ben Lark was yawning 
cavernously. The beginning of the end. 
A ten-thousand-pound yawn! 

There was no further necessity to stand 
by. Safforth, convincingly glassy, gurgled 
down a parting spot and bowed out. When 
he was half way home a bellow that was 
rich music came over his shoulder. That 
was Jollett. 



"Come to life, Lark ! Wake up ! Youf 
play!" 

Kay was in her own room, in bed. 
Sleeping or pretending, one or the other. 
She didn't respond to Safforth's call, and 
Safforth didn't repeat it. Stumbling on, 
he artistically bumped a table and knocked 
over a chair. His voice when he swore 
was much thicker than there was need for 
it to be. His head was clear as a bell. 
Through his mind as he got into pajamas 
ran over and over an impudent little mel- 
ody that had bridged an ocean of time. 
They had been singing it at the Folies his 
last shot in Paris. He thought of a girl 
called Babette, nice looking, altogether 

charmingly sinful. He wondered But 

no, there'd be a new crop so pass Babette. 

From the hotel came a gust of laughing. 
Ben Lark wasn't doing any of it. The 
laughers were Jollett and Schruyn, and 
promptly their guffaw had brought Nuo- 
lana, penetratingly indignant. 

"Schruyn, you drunk like peeg! Ben 
Lark, he keel you sure if you mak' him 
hot foot!" 

Then Jollett's voice, "Got to rouse him 
some way. He went out like a bloomin' 
light. Leave 'im to me." 

Jollett's method, whatever it was, must 
have been rough and ready. It brought 
a protest even from Schruyn. Safforth 
heard, "My Gott, don't do it!" But Jol- 
lett, evidently persisting, was laughing 
again. And after a moment, Schruyn and 
Nuolana were laughing with him. 

At last, Jollett got Lark on his feet, got 
him out on the veranda. Safforth, looking 
on from his dark bedroom over the way, 
saw the start for the schooner. The opiate, 
in truth, hadn't taken hold with full effect 
yet — would not for perhaps another half 
hour. Lark, of course, couldn't realize 
much what was happening ; couldn't possi- 
bly have got down to the schooner under 
his own fading power. But with Jollett 
propping him on one side and Craig on 
the other, he did navigate after a fashion. 

It was well after two when Jollett and 
Craig came back. At half past, Jollett's 



68 SHORT 

light was out and Safforth's door was softly 
opening. Kay stood there listening; then, 
assured that he was soundly sleeping, she 
tiptoed out into the bright night. She wore 
a tweed skirt and a woolly sweater, carried 
just one small handbag. 

This morning Craig awaited her by his 
own white bungalow. They embraced 
swiftly, swiftly and silently went toward 
the lagoon. Fifteen minutes after that the 
whaleboat flitted like a silver ghost over 
the reef as Safforth looked after her from 
the doorsill of his broken home. 

"Bon voyage!" he murmured chipperly. 

With care he ripped up the farewell note 
that Kay had left . for him — not the best 
of reading, after all — and changed again 
from pajamas to dungarees. For moral 
support, nothing more, he shoved the pistol 
into his pocket at the moment of setting 
forth. 

AT THIS tide there was a swirl of 
water lapping the counter of Lark's 
embedded schooner. Wading, boarding her 
aft, Safforth could be sure he was leaving 
no marplot footprints. 

The cabin hatch stood open. Moonlight 
pouring through it fell on Malitonga's 
Midas, flat on his back, fathoms under, 
his mouth wide as the hatch. 

He stirred as Safforth reached the foot 
of the companionway, and that was very 
hard on Safforth. Took it out of him the 
way his tries at the quarter-mile had done 
at school, before he was sent down. His 
heart slammed fearfully against his ribs. 
For an all-gone instant the pistol was a 
greater weight than his shaking hand could 
lift. 

Lark hadn't opened his eyes — nor closed 
his mouth. But Safforth, staring at him, 
catching breath, found his faith in the in- 
fallible wavering. What if he hadn't dosed 
out quite enough of that stuff? What 
if there should be something in Lark's inner 
chemistry to make him exceptionally re- 
sistant to it? 

Safforth shifted his grip to the barrel 



STORIES 

of the gun and settled it with the heavy 
end. The crimson trickle starting out of 
the bristling gray thatch jolted him — and 
then he was jolted again. Either it wasn't 
true that Lark always wore that fabulous 
belt, or else he had somehow contrived 
to get it off and put away before the drug 
sank him. At any rate there was only one 
belt on Ben Lark now, the scarred strap 
looped through those baggy, beachcomber 
breeches. 

Safforth embarked on a hasty search. 
No money-belt in the standing locker for- 
ward, none on the transom shelves, none 
in the drawers tinder the berths. In a 
sweat of anxiety he lifted his watch wrist 
into the shifted pond of moonlight under 
the hatch. Four o'clock was near. The 
sun would be up in devilish short order, 
and it mustn't see Gerald Safforth aboard 
the schooner or in its neighborhood. 

The thing was, surely, that Lark was in 
the habit of laying his treasure away in 
some special place of concealment before 
he turned in, and that it was a habit which 
had prevailed. 

A whiskey bottle, half full, stood on the 
cabin table. Not a favorite brand of Saf- 
forth's, but a stiff peg out of the bottle 
pulled him up. Getting into a lather, he 
told himself, he'd get nowhere. Some- 
where in this small space that belt was 
hidden. If he sought it with intelligence, 
with method, he would have found it well 
ahead of daylight. 

Method and that racing longer watcE- 
hand didn't team so well. He took a sec- 
ond drink and a third. They failed to 
help. It was suddenly half after four. 

A loose floorboard gave under his tread. 
He pulled it up and the foulness of the 
bilge surged at him. No belt there. It 
was maddening. Ten thousand pounds so 
close, yet not to be found. Could it be 
— only place he hadn't looked a dozen times 
— under Lark? Under that dirty pad of 
a mattress? He crossed over and heaved 
at the sleeper's supine bulk. 

Somehow, there wasn't 4 right feel to 



MURDER ON MALITONGA 



69 



Lark. Safforth let him drop back, leaned 
over him — Lark didn't look right, either. 

Safforth drew in a long, wheezy breath 
and went to ice. The shuddering truth 
was that Ben Lark's skull hadn't been built 
as staunchly as the rest of him. That pre- 
cautionary tap had mortally crashed it, and 
now his belt was his estate. 

It was murder — profitless murder. The 
eastern horizon was menacingly aglow. 

Ill 

FOR himself, Safforth felt no alarm. Let 
them protest as they would, there'd 
be a hanging case tin Craig at the snap of 
the handcuffs — whenever and wherever 
they snapped. Why, his own lawyer would 
never believe that Craig had not killed 
Lark! Just as his flight would have 
branded him a thief on happier upshot, he 
was now a branded murderer. 

The sun was coming over Schruyn's 
roof when Safforth settled himself for a 
sleep. It would be a long sleep, for he 
had taken all but the last few drops of the 
opiate. The vial he had placed in Kay's 
room. If there should be premature dis- 
covery of the murder, and others should 
come here and find him in a drugged tor- 
por, there it would be — reasonable enough 
evidence that it was she who had slipped 
the drug to him. 

Dropping off, Safforth could think equa- 
bly of what was to happen to the man who 
had stolen Kay. His one overwhelming 
regret was that he had missed the belt, his 
one fondest hope that he might yet be the 
first to discover its hiding place. If he 
were alone then, it would be his. For 
surely the fact it was not actually on Craig 
at the moment of his apprehension could, 
in the circumstances, mean nothing. 
Wouldn't he have got his loot into hiding 
at the first chance ? 

Coming out of such a sleep, a man's head 
would not be at its clearest. Safforth, 
waking, knew that at least twelve hours 
must have passed since he closed his eyes. 
The sun had traveled a long way from 



its fingerhold on the hotel roof. It was 

setting. 

Someone was moving in the house. Saf- 
forth, not quite out from under, called 
"Kay!" 

It was Jollett who came into the bed- 
room. His red-moon face that smiled so 
easily was funereally solemn. 

"Been trying for hours to rout you out,"; 
he said. "You gave us a turn, you did. 
Feeling fit?" 

Safforth gathered himself. He passed 
an uncertain hand over his forehead. 
"Dizzy. Am I — have I been ill, you mean?, 
Where's Kay?" 

Jollett dropped into the bedside chair; 
Safforth could have sworn that its legs 
bowed under him. 

"There's bad news," he said. "Even if 
you're not tophole, you might as well have 
it off the shoulder. To begin it, your 
wife's gone. Or — did you know?" 

Safforth lifted, stared. 

"Gone!" 

"You must know — can't be dodged. 
She's left you. Left Malitonga. She went 




with Craig. They were both missing this 
morning. So was Keene's whaleboat." 

Safforth gasped, "Impossible! It — it's 
one of your blighted tricks, Jollett. I tell 
you straight, you're overstepping." 

"It's true." Jollett had whiskey on his 
breath, but his eyes were clearer than Saf- 
forth ever had seen them ; clear and terrific- 
ally sympathetic. It was manifest in them 
that it went against Jollett to be burdened 
with ill tidings. He looked down his nose 
toward that great purplish wart, and sighed 
and looked at Safforth again. "As true," 
he said, "as that Ben Lark's dead." 

"Dead!" repeated Safforth, up straight. 



7o 



SHORT STORIES 



"Murdered," said Jollett. "Murdered in 
his sleep for his money-belt." 

SCHRUYN filled the doorway— as sol- 
emn as Jollett, not as sober. Cutting 
in, he swayed. 

"Und Craig — und Missus Safforth — 
running off so sudden und secret! What 
it look like, huh?" 

"Desperate, it looked," Jollett nodded. 
"Deadly bad indeed. Murderous bad. 
But " 

Suddenly as he met that steady look the 
horror in Safforth's eyes was authentic. 
Jollett— God, what could that "But—" 
mean ? — was fatef ully sure of himself as he 
spoke it. 

Sure too as he spoke again after that 
thundering little pause. 

"But most luckily, Lark's murderer had 
left his signature in that cabin below. God 
help him, he'll swing. Yes — God help you, 
Safforth! It's your own mark there, not 
to be missed. Every time you pulled out 
another drawer, opened another locker, you 
deepened it. D'you begin to understand ?" 

Schruyn broke out with a boozy laugh. 

"You fool, Safforth! You don't know 
yet! Listen, dummer " 

He stopped. Safforth had heard enough 
for one purpose — enough to convince him 
he had made some mortal slip. He was 
diving for that pistol, cleaned now, innocent 



of Ben Lark's blood. And as he dived, 
Jollett had his wrist. 

"Thank you — for Craig, I thank you," 
Jollett murmured, master again of the easy 
smile. "Nothing else is needed now to 
send you on to hell. Of course, it was 
one of us four other whites who killed 
Ben — and which, indeed, but you? 
Might' ve been harder to make the proof, 
though, if you'd kept your bloody head!" 

Schruyn was laughing again. 

"Himmel!" he grunted. "Who iss the 
joke on, I like to know. Lark or Saf- 
forth?" 

Jollett shrugged a suety shoulder. 
"Not on Neil Craig, anyhow," said he. 
"After all, not on 'im." 

AT THE whaleboat's tiller, midway be- 
4* tween Malitonga and Luahala, Craig 
suddenly chuckled. 

"Almost wish," he said, "we'd stayed 
put for one more day. It would have been 
something to see Ben Lark today — and 
listen to him when he found that ten-thou- 
sand-pound belt gone. First time, it was, 
I'd ever known him to do a blackout. And 
Jollett and Schruyn got his money-belt 
away while he napped and hid it overnight 
in that little safe of Schruyn's. Let's see, 
was your former boy friend Mr. Gerald 
J. V. Safforth in on it? No — I remember 
he'd just gone home!" 




in 



Bob Forrest and His Human Bloodhound from the Sticks 
Watch a Real City Detective on a Murder Case 




Dawg I 
Tracks 

By ^ 
G. W. BARRINGTON 

Author of "Trouble Rides the Range," "Battle in the Badlands," etc. 





DAMN !" 
Bracing his chuffy shoulders 
against the rear cushion, De- 
tective Moffat held his breath 
and hoped for the best, while 
expecting the worst, as all men must who 
ride with Speed Smiley. A skift of rain 
on an oily pavement, with Speed doing 
seventy around a sharp turn swung the 
powerful police car into a careening wrench 
to the left that was followed by a drunken 
lurch to the right. Moffat found himself 
flying through space to an accompanying 
diapason of tinkling glass and grinding, 
buckling metal. 

"Whewl" Contact with the good old 
earth, at last. Dripping shrubbery, soggy 
turf, darkness, silence. Lurching to his 
feet he swung his short arms and felt of 
his ribs. Sound all around. He dug out 
his flashlight and snapped it on. There 
was the car, on its side, its crumpled belly 
jammed against a tree, one front wheel 
still spinning lazily. 
"Speed!" 

"Here!" A shrimpy, bedraggled figure 
reeled into the circle of light and leaned 
against the mangled car. 

"Hurt bad?" Moffat tried to be decent 
about it and inject a little anxious sympa- 
thy into his tone. If he was not entirely 
successful, allowance must be made for the 
fact that the lieutenant had told him to 

10 71 



get out to the big Cullom estate on the 
whizz, that eccentric old Cullom had been 
murdered in a most brutal manner, and 
that Moffat must produce results or else. 
That "or else" was injected because old 
Cullom had been the captain's financial 
chum, and the time had not yet arrived in 
Dallas when a captain's financial chum 
could be beaten to death with nothing done 
about it. 

Then the lieutenant had malleted his 
favorite bald spot on the desk with a 
knuckly fist and sworn by the wraiths of 
Nick Carter and Old Sleuth that if this 
crime was added to the six others unsolved 
during the past thirty days somebody was 
going to ketch hell. He had looked hard 
at Moffat when he said "somebody." 

All the way from the station, worried 
Moffat had been arraying in his mind the 
disjointed clutter of facts his superior had 
sputtered at him. Cullom was rich, miserly 
in a way, and known to distrust banks. 
No relatives. Few business associates, 
fewer social intimates. No enemies. Maid 
out — neighborhood movie. Butler tied. 
Wall safe tapped. Old man killed. Ten 
thousand known to have been in the safe.' 
Probably much more. 

HURT bad?" Moffat repeated the query, 
when Speed failed to answer, seeming 
to be engaged in taking an inventory. 



72 



SHORT STORIES 



"Nawthin' serious. Bunged shoulder, 
ankle on the bum, noodle a little woozy. 
Guess I'll live." 

"Huh! Nobody cares a damn whether 
you live or not. If you do you'll kill some- 
body else. What I wanta know is can you 
walk till I git you over to that house?" 

Speed could and did, though he was a 
little wobbly. The folks at the house were 
sympathetic, but their car was out. After 
phoning the emergency hospital, Moffat 
rushed outside, bent on commandeering the 
first wheeled thing that came in sight. And 
there it came, a rattling fuming touring 
Lizzie that squealed wildly and stopped to 
throb and shimmy, when Moffat waved his 
flash. "Somethin' th' matter, Mister?" a 
slow drawl came from the back seat. In- 
trigued, despite his hot haste, Moffat played 
the torch over the speaker and saw a 
squabby-bodied, iron-gray man in faded but 
clean and serviceable brown corduroys, 
battered wool hat and laced boots. The 
eyes, steel-blue and twinkling, were sur- 
rounded by hundreds of criss-crossing 
smile wrinkles. The mouth and mustache 
were modifications of T. R.'s. The sun- 
cooked neck was Jack Dempsey's. The 
square chin was this man's and no one's 
else. 

■ Moffat turned the torch on the driver 
— another fellow who appeared distinctly 
out of place in a fashionable Dallas suburb. 
Probably in his early thirties, he was tall, 
slender, with a face like a knife. The deep, 
steady brown eyes and rather long black 
hair betrayed his strain of Indian blood. 
Handsome, in a half-tamed way, Moffat 
decided. "Where you birds from?" he 
asked, a little gruffly, instead of answering 
the elder man's question. 

"Seminole, Texas," came the drawling 
answer. "We come up to see the fair. We 
got a room out this-away, and drive in 
ev'ry day to " 

"I see." Moffat opened his coat and 
flashed the torch on his badge. "I'm the 
law, uncle. Gotta grab your hack fur a 
little ramble." 



"Shore thing," came the genial answer. 
"You'll hafta come 'round on this side, 
though. Them doors on that side is busted, 
and we had to wire 'em shut. 

TX7"AL, wal, wal. So you're a officer, 
" ™ eh?" the slow full voice came from 
the back seat after Moffat had slipped in 
beside the driver and a succession of snorts 
and rumbles and puffs of acrid smoke told 
that they were on their way. "That's what 
a feller might call a funny coincydence. 
I'm a officer, too." 

"Yeah ?" Moffat froze instantly. He had 
encountered these hick laws before, had 
even piloted a few of them around town, 
watching them gape and answering their 
ceaseless questions. Not tonight, though. 
"Straight ahead. Step on it," he almost 
snapped. 

"Uh-huh," the man on the rear seat went 
on, placidly, raising his even voice as the 
shivering machine gathered speed and 
fumed and rumbled and clanked propor- 
tionately. "Name's Forrest. I been sher- 
iff down there at Seminole thutty-fo' year, 
come January." He leaned forward and 
tapped the driver's withy shoulder with a 
stubby forefinger. "This here's Danny 
Simmons, my head deputy. Folks down 
our way calls him th' human blood-houn'. 
Mebbe you've heered of 'im." 

"Sure thing," Moffat lied, amiably, mol- 
lified by the fact that Danny was getting 
surprising results with that four-wheeled 
agitator. "Glad to meetchu. See'n' th' 
fair, eh?" 

"Uh-huh. Some show, hain't it?" 

"So they say," Moffat answered, a little 
glumly. "Fact is I ain't been out there 
myself. Too much on th' books at head- 
quarters. Take tonight, now. Just goin' 
off duty when in comes a hurry-up call, 
and the Loot shoos me out — right hand 
turn here — to work up a damn murder 
case." 

IIS SEN, Danny, he's a real city detec- 
+ tive out on a murder case ! Gee- 
whillikins, but I'm glad we happened to 



DAWG TRACKS 



73 



come shackin' along just when we did! 
Now we kin he'p him." 

"Thanks," Moffat answered, without en- 
thusiasm. "But I'm afraid you fellows 
wouldn't be able to help a lot. You may 
be all right down at Seminole, Texas, but 
this town's too big for you. A dick hasta 
be really smart to work here." 

"That's what me'n Danny been wantin' 
to find out," the old officer went on, cheer- 
fully. "You know that word 'smart' means 
a hull lot, or nawthin' Mister. Depends 
on who's usin' it, an' who he's pastin' it 




onto. A reg'lur jughead may be smart in 
some ways — 'specially when he's on his 
own dunghill. On t'other hand, the plumb 
ignurantest human I ever met up with was 
a college president. Honest to Gawd, Mis- 
ter, that pore dumb galoot didn't know 
what a mayhaw glade was." 

"You don't say," Moffat said a little 
lamely. The fact was that he hadn't the 
most remote idea of what a mayhaw glade 
was, either. He thought he had heard the 
driver chuckle softly. Could it be that the 
bird on the back seat was giving him the 
razz? He looked back suspiciously as they 
passed under a corner light, but the old 
officer had opened a grip on his lap and 
was prowling around inside of it, seemingly 
willing to allow conversation to cease, for 
the time being. 

TJERE'S the place," Moffat announced 
when they came opposite a big, square 
house set well back from the road and 
surrounded by a tangle of vines and shrub- 
bery. Sticking its steaming prow into the 
10 



winding drive, the flivver displayed a new 
variety of vibrations and abdominal rum- 
blings when its worn tires encountered a 
brick-flagged roadway. When it stopped, 
panting and shuddering, beside the deep 
front veranda, Moffat was already on the 
runningboard. "Much 'bliged," he admit- 
ted, none too graciously, then dropped off 
and took the steps three at a time. 

In the vestibule loomed a huge blue- 
coated figure — Tiney Stevens, largest man 
on the force, exiled to patrol duty on the 
outlying beat because he had arrested one 
of the captain's friends for a traffic viola- 
tion. Moffat shuddered when he thought 
of that captain's power. In the reception 
hall, Braley and Smith, radio patrol junt- 
ers, were squirting tobacco juice into a 
glowing grate with the bored air of men 
who are not particularly interested in their 
surroundings, but must stay around. With 
Braley flat-footing ahead of him to show 
the way, Moffat went up the broad, wind- 
ing stair and into the stuffy tapestried bed- 
room where the body lay. Not much to 
guess about there. Gad in a faded purple 
bathrobe, the time-worn, emaciated figure 
lay sprawled on a rug by the gloomy old 
canopied bed. There had been no strug- 
gle. The left temple had been caved in. 
Only a thin trickle of blood had dried on 
the craggy" cheek-bone. One stiffened 
hand still clutched a long-stemmed pipe, 
embers from which had slightly scorched 
the rug beside the old man's shoulder. 
Satnding on the threshold, Moffat easily 
reconstructed the crime to his own satis- 
faction. Old Cullom had taken his bath, 
of course. Then, after filling and lighting 
his pipe, he had started toward a rocker 
in a bay-window near the bed for his bed- 
time smoke. Someone lurking there — 
probably having entered the room while he 
was bathing — had struck him down. 

DONE?" Braley asked, as a matter of 
routine, when Moffat turned toward 
the hall after a cursory glance into the 
bathroom had shown him that the rubber. 



74 



SHORT STORIES 



rug before the tub was wet and that two 
soggy towels lay on the tiled floor. 

"Sure. Tell Smith to stick here till the 
coroner takes his look-see," Moffat an- 
swered, as he reached the upper landing. 
He picked up speed on the stairway when 
sounds of a mild altercation were wafted 
up from the reception hall. 

" 'Gainst orders," Tiney's heavy basso 
announced, inflexibly. 

"Mebbe so, mebbe so, Mister," that out- 
lander sheriff's smooth drawl answered, 
placatingly. "Circumstances alters cases, 
though. Y'see we driv Detective Moffat 
out here an', bein' officers, it's our bound- 
in' duty to aid a feller-officer in distress. 
Anyway, that's what th' Texas statutes 
makes an' provides, so I reckon it's the 
law here in Dallas." 

"Where do you git that distress stuff, 
uncle?" Moffat boomed, going on down. 
"I ain't sent out no S O S that I remem- 
ber of." 

"Cain't say as you did, precise," came 

the unruffled rejoinder. "Same time, I 

thought you looked kinda worritted, so 
» 

"Huh! The clan to the rescue, eh?" 
Moffat stopped at the foot of the stair to 
say, dryly. "Well, I must say that you 
two believe in preparedness." The last re- 
mark had its justification. Moffat knew 
now what the old sheriff had been delving 
for in that grip. A large star labeled 
Sheriff glittered on the lapel of his coat, 
a wide leather belt with a double row of 
cartridges circled his waist, supporting two 
holstered revolvers of the old frontier type. 
The deputy also wore his badge, and in 
the crook of his arm nestled a light, high- 
powered rifle that seemed to belong just 
there. Somehow Moffat suddenly acquired 
an unaccountable respect for the alien pair. 
Plant that keen-eyed old coot's foot firmly 
on his native heath, and he'd be formida- 
ble. Peel those incongruous store clothes 
and yellow button shoes off the younger 
one and dress him in fringed buckskin, he'd 
give Deerslayer cards and spades and 



'"PHIS officer tells me that the pore ol' 
feller's body is upstairs," the sheriff 
said. "Mind if men' Danny " 

"Oh go ahead," Moffat acquiesced, a 
little to his own surprise and to Tiney's 
evident astonishment. "Don't touch any- 
thing, though." 

"Much obleeged, shore am," the veteran 
enthused, his smile wrinkles interlocking 
and dancing merrily behind his steel-bowed 
spectacles. "You know, this is gonna be 
right intrustin' to us. We-all bin readin' 
'bout finger-printin' an' blood analyzin' an' 
sichlike tricks you city officers use. Y'see 
we may l'arn some didoes that'll he'p us 
in our own work, eh, Danny?" 

Danny nodded silently, and they Indian- 
filed up to the death chamber, just as 
Smith ambled in from the front to sizzle 





■9 

ill 


m 



the grate with amber saliva and announce 
that the Big Boy was outside. 

Damn ! The fact that the captain deemed 
the case of sufficient importance to demand 
his personal attendance at the investigation 
reminded Moffat sharply of the dread ulti- 
matum the desk-whacking lieutenant had 
bluntly laid down. It was pinch some- 
body — or else. Moffat would pinch some- 
body. "Fetch them servants in one at a 
time," he ordered with his most business- 
like air, just as the captain entered. 

IT WAS quite an imposing tribunal that 
assembled in the big bleak living room. 
There was the captain, whose facial ex- 
pression backed up everything the lieuten- 
ant's malleting fist had conveyed. There 
was Moffat, desperately bent upon digging 
up a clue somewhere — anywhere. There 



DAWG TRACKS 



75 



was Tiney, a disciplined automaton, eager 
to serve. There was the resourceful 
Braley, acting as bailiff. Moffat's official 
frown deepened when the sheriff and his 
deputy stalked in, causing the captain's 
bushy brows to arch, and necessitating in- 
troductions and an explanation that was 
somewhat of an apology. 

Perkins, the butler answered questions 
readily, his well-disciplined butlerish coun- 
tenance devoid of expression. He had 
served in the house six years, having come 
directly there from Liverpool. Having no 
valet, and being somewhat feeble, his mas- 
ter sometimes demanded his aid in dress- 
ing. On this particular night, he had drawn 
the water for his master's bath, then come 
downstairs to lock up the silverware. As 
he entered the dining room, a tall man, 
roughly clothed and masked, had forced 
him to enter the living room and seat him- 
self in a chair. To be more specific, it was 
the identical arm chair the sheriff gentle- 
man was occupying. 

Then the intruder had bound Perkins 
with the sash cord that was still lying there 
by the hearth, and gagged him with a strip 
torn from the bay-window curtain. There 
was the strip, half underneath the chair. 
Then the prowler had padded upstairs. 
Shortly afterward, Perkins had heard a 
blow and a heavy fall. That was all until 
Melissa, the maid had returned and found 
him. Horribly frightened, Melissa had 
fainted after cutting his bonds. He had 
just secured a pistol from the drawer of 
the desk in the library, when he heard the 
back door slam shut, and stealthy footsteps 
cross the service porch. Rushing in pur- 
suit, he had glimpsed a furtive figure slink- 
ing through the kitchen garden and had 
given chase, firing his pistol twice. The 
robber had scrambled over the high fence 
and reached the next street. Not being an 
athletic man, Perkins was obliged to go 
around to the gate. Before he reached it, 
he heard a car start and hum away toward 
town. Returning to the house, Perkins 
had found his master dead, as the gentle- 
men could see. The combination of the 

10' 



old-type wall safe in the library had been 
worked. No, Perkins had no idea how 
much money had been in the strong box, 
as he never interested himself in his mas- 
ter's affairs. 

ABOUT what time was it when this 
yegg shoved the gat at you?" Moffat 
asked. 

" 'Alf after nine," Perkins answered, un- 
hesitatingly. "Mr. Cullom was a gentle- 
man of 'abits, sir. 'E made a point of it 
always to retire promptly at that hour. 
A most personable person 'e was." - 

"Can you give any description of this 
robber or his clothes?" 

"Sorry, sir, but I cawn't. I 'ad a mere 
glimpse before he faced me about and 
chevied me in 'ere and trussed me, and an- 
other mere glimpse as 'e barged through the 
kitchen garden." The butler mopped his 
moist forehead with an immaculate hand- 
kerchief and volunteered, "Permit me to 
say, 'e must be an extraordinarily soft- 
moving person, quite. Not a sound did 
I 'ear from 'im while 'e was prowling about 
and looting the bally safe. It was fair 
spooky, sir, I assure you." 

THERE was a brief interlude while 
Braley brought in the maid. The old 
sheriff picked up the strands of sash cord, 
examined them in a detached manner, then 
tossed them aside and sat gnawing at a 
tuft of his long, spiraling mustache and 
gazing into the fire. Seated on the other 
side of the hearth, his beloved rifle across 
his lap, Danny bent to scratch a match on 
the pitted tip of one of the antique bronze 
andirons. For some reason that set Mof- 
fat to wondering idly, the deputy changed 
his mind and hoisted a leg to scratch the 
lucifer on his shoe sole. Queer birds, those' 
two, Moffat decided — a verdict that was 
strengthened a moment later when the dep- 
uty rose quietly and sniffed unobtrusively 
at a pair of empty glasses and a decanter 
that stood on the tall mantel shelf. "Hit 
it if your mouth's cottony," Moffat grinned.' 



76 



SHORT STORIES 



"You too, uncle. It'll be the real stuff 
or Cullom wouldn't have it." 

"Much obleeged, shore am," the sheriff 
smiled. "It's gin, though, and gin's a nig- 
ger drink down where we come from. 
Furdermore, whilst I don't mind admittin' 
that me'n Danny takes a little snifter now 
an' then, this ain't now an' it hain't then." 
The old officer finished repacking his black- 
rimmed corncob, and engaged himself in 
coaxing it into a satisfactory state of erup- 
tion. 

Feeling rebuffed somehow, Moffat could 
not refrain from taking a sly dig. "You 
may not guzzle everything in sight, but I 
must say you gotta nose for your licker. 
You didn't guess twice about what was 
in that decanter." 

"Sorter knowed it awready," the sheriff 
answered, unconcernedly, then leaned back 
in his arm chair with the air of one who 
had dismissed an inconsequential subject. 

Eddie Stalworth, fingerprint expert, ar- 
rived from headquarters and was ordered 
to give the library the once over and take 
plaster casts of any footprints found in the 
back yard. Under the captain's all-seeing 
eye, Moffat was overlooking nothing. The 
ominous part of it was that the captain was 
taking no part whatever, but was seemingly 
content to give Moffat full play and see 
what he could do. 

Well, he'd show 'em. 

MELISSA, the maid, a buxom, round- 
faced brunette, had worked in the 
house before poor dear Mrs. Cullom had 
died, six years previously. She had taken 
the evening off to see the pictures, return- 
ing shortly after eleven to find Perkins 
tied. She had gotten a knife from the 
kitchen and cut him loose somehow. Then 
she had passed out, knowing no more about 
anything until she had roused to find her- 
self alone and had dragged herself upstairs 
to find Perkins sobbing over the body. 
And, what with the murdering and robbing 
and chasing and shooting that had been 
going on, it was enough to frighten a body 
out of their wits, so she couldn't even 



remember that she had phoned for the po- 
lice, though Perkins said she had, so she 
supposed she must have. And now, if the 
gentlemen would kindly excuse her, she 
had told all she was capable of telling, and 
it was near two o'clock, so she would go 
and lie down, though heavens knows she 
didn't expect to sleep. After Moffat had 
nodded his assent, she started upstairs. 
Moffat was mildly surprised when the sher- 
iff rose with alacrity, offered his sturdy arm 
and gallantly escorted the weeping, trem- 
bling maid to the upper floor. "Old gal's 
pretty shaky," the detective commented, 
after the sheriff had waddled back and re- 




sumed his seat. "No wonder though. As 
she says, things have been happening 
around here." 

"Shore have," the sheriff acquiesced. 
Wonderingly, Moffat noted that the deputy 
eyed his superior questioningly, receiving 
an almost imperceptible nod in response. 
What the devil was all that pantomime 
about anyhow? Moffat didn't know, and 
when there was something afoot that Mof- 
fat didn't know all about, Moffat was un- 
easy. 

WELL?" Speaking almost for the 
first time, the captain put a respect- 
able vocabulary into the monosyllable. It 
was a query, a covert threat and a predic- 
tion of failure. 

"Just a minute while I go see what Ed- 
die's dug up," Moffat parried. 

As Moffat passed through the hall on 
his way out, Tiney leaned down to whis- 
per, "Go to it, old top and scratch out 
something. Me an' Braley an' Smith will 



DAWG TRACKS 



77 



yes the hell outa anything you say. Make 
'er a good one though. The Big Boy's 
got you on the spot." 

When Moffat re-entered, he had Eddie's 
report that there were prints on the safe 
door that might be anybody's. Plaster 
casts of two sets of footprints were hard- 
ening. One was about size number ten; 
the other was the biggest Eddie had ever 
taken. The two trails were all mixed up 
and ran straight from the service porch 
to the rear fence. There the number ten 
gent had circled and gone to the gate, then 
returned to the house. A damn dog had 
prowled around out there, messing things 
up some, but a few prints hadn't been 
smeared any. They'd be right in. 

And now, the detective was walking on 
velvet — actually itching for the captain to 
ask him a few things. The captain did. 
It was another "Well?" a shade more 
menacing and surcharged with evil proph- 
ecy than the former one. 

"Nothin' to it," Moffat answered, with' 
airy confidence. "It's a plain open-and- 
shut case. Thumper Hayes got outa stir 
last week, and is back on th' job. Re- 
member th' description Perkins give — big, 
soft-steppin' bird, never sayin' nothin' to 
nobody. Velvet-fingered that safe, too." 

"Just what I was thinkin'," Tiney sec- 
onded promptly from the doorway. "This 
is one of Thumper's jobs. Might as well 
have left us a receipt fur that cash. He 
always bats 'em on th' head and lets 'em 
lay, and he always prowls aroun' quiet as 
a mouse just as that butler bloke says." 

"Comin' to think of it," Braley con- 
tributed, "we thought we seen Thumper 
over on the water front, las' night, didn't 
we, Smith? Anyway, he's somewhere in 
town. We know that. Like Moffat says, 
this thing's a cold cinch." 

THE stern look on the captain's face 
relaxed somewhat. After all, there 
was light ahead. He had had a real liking 
for eccentric old Cullom. If he only could 
turn a key on Cullom's murderer a lot of 
things could be overlooked. "You may be 



right, Moffat," he said, just a little doubt- 
fully. "Anyway, I hope you are. I'll call 
headquarters and ask the chief to throw 
the net out. I suppose, of course, the Ber- 
tillon room has Thumper's prints, eh?" 

"Sure," Eddie answered, having just 
entered with a couple of plaster casts on 
sheets of pasteboard which he laid gingerly 
on a center table after brushing aside a 
few knick-knacks. "Well, there you are. 
This here's the butler's, of course. The 
other's big enough to be Thumper's, 
though he'll be slick enough to change 
shoes on us." 

"He'll change clothes, too, if they still 
put stripes on 'em while they're waitin' 
to go through the little green door," the 
captain growled. "Where's the phone?" 
he asked of Perkins, who was hovering in 
the hall. 

"Straight ahead, sir, at the far hend of 
the 'allway," Perkins answered, stepping 
aside and bowing. "Blimme, but I'm 'op- 
ing you'll make that bloody-'anded knave 
come a cropper !" 

"Don't worry," Moffat assured him, 
cheerfully. "Thumper's a slick one all 
right, but we got him dead to rights, this 
time. Gonna throw the book at him — 
burglary, assault, murder. The judge'll 
give him all of it, and that'll be that." With 
things going his way nicely, the detective 
turned to his guests of the 'evening. "Well, 
boys, what do you think of our city meth- 
ods now? Scientific, eh? Johnny-at-the- 
rat-hole, eh? Quick service, eh?" 

IN THE act of refilling the corncob, the 
old officer retrieved a few vagrant flakes 
of Green Toad from a crease in his vest 
and tamped them into the black-rimmed 
bowl with meticulous frugality. "We're 
lookin' an' we're listenin'," he finally 
drawled, non-committally, then scratched 
a match noisily on his bootsole and resumed 
his smoking. 

"Lookin' an' listenin', eh?" Moffat 
chuckled. "Shoved onto the sidelines, eh? 
Game's too fast for you, eh? Well, get 
your money's worth while you're at it." 



78 



SHORT STORIES 



The detective's chortling voice trailed off 
to nothingness and he cocked his bullet 
head to one side and did a little looking 
and listening himself. The captain was 
returning from the phone, his quick, stamp- 
ing tread having an eloquence that could 
not be mistaken. All eyed him in pregnant 
silence as he stalked in and faced the al- 
ready-cringing sleuth. "You square-heads 
git to hell out of here. We'll take a fresh 
start on this thing in the morning," he 
snapped, reaching for his hat. 

Apprehensive, but still game, Moffat fal- 
tered. "Then you don't think Thumper 



The captain's close-cropped mustache 
contracted to a mere tuft on each side of 
his nose, and his nostrils twitched like a 
mouse's. "Thumper, hell," he grated, his 
close-set ferret eyes glittering balefully. 
"Don't ever say Thumper to me again. 
He's got what I call a air-tight alibi. 

"Huh! Fine stuff, I don't think! 'Bet- 
ter have Thumper Hayes picked up,' I sez 
to the chief. 'We about got this Cullom 
thing pinned on him.' 

" 'Fine work !' the chief applauds in that 
sugar-coated voice he uses when he's about 
ready to bust somebody's jaw. 

" T don't see how Moffat ever hung this 
onto him so quick,' sez I, tryin' to give 
you a boost. 

" T don't either,' the chief honeys back. 
'Especially in view of the fact that we've 
had Thumper in jail on general principles 
since day-before yesterday. If you and 
Moffat can't attend the morning show up, 
why in hell donchu read the papers ?' 

"Now I'm askin' you ivory-domes some- 
thing. Don't all answer at once. Just 
how long do you think it'll be before the 
boys down at headquarters quit telling this 
story to each other? 

"Think hard." 

THE captain grabbed the decanter off 
the mantel, tilted it up, drank gur- 
glingly, then banged it down. "Thumper 
Hayes," he mimicked Moffat's slightly 



nasal tones, then clapped on his hat and 
started out. 

"It was only a theory," Moffat defended, 
weakly, then bristled a little. "You said 
yourself " 

The detective stopped when his superior 
wheeled back to face him. The captain's 
mustache had disappeared altogether, and 
his nose had changed from a mouse's to an 
anteater's. "I'll put a harness on you for 
this, Moffat," he promised darkly. "A beat 
in the sticks, at that. That'll give you 
plenty of time to theorize all by your lone- 
some. Only one thing'll save you. Bring 
me in the man who killed John Cullom. I 
don't mean railroad some poor devil. I 
mean get the man!" 

"Beggin' your pardon fur hornin' in," 
the old sheriff offered diffidently, "if we 
kin he'p, me'n' Danny's plumb willin'. 
You've done showed us your finger- 
prontin' an' plaster-castin', so, if they's any 
way we kin do hit we'd admire to pay you 
back." 

"Huh," Moffat snorted. "I s'pose you 
and Hawkeye over there can solve this 
crime, right now, eh?" 

"I ain't sayin'," the sheriff answered, 
placidly. "We mought, an' then ag'in, we 
moughtn't. Anyway, you 'pear to a got 
your tail in a crack, an' I don't want it said 
that Bob Forrest ever deserted a brother 
officer in " 

"Hey ! Wait a minute," the captain in- 
terjected, the mustache commencing to 
spread toward normalcy. "Bob Forrest. 
Bob Forrest. Seems like I " 

"B'gawd, I gotchu! By special request 
of the president, you two put on an exhibi- 
tion of man-trailing at the last meeting of 
the Sheriffs' and Police Chiefs' Association, 
didn't chu ? Trailed a man all over a park 
where hundreds of men had been tramping 
around, didn't chu?" 

"Danny did," the old officer said, mod- 
estly. "I ain't no great shakes at it, but I'm 
better'n' some, at that. Take Danny there, 
though. I'd shore admire to hev him " 

"Hop to it, the play's yours," the captain 
agreed heartily, while the others gaped and 



DAWG TRACKS 



79 



shuffled their feet uneasily. Moffat braz- 
enly took an unconscionable pull at the de- 
canter, then sat down and crossed his legs 
with an alright-I-wash-my-hands-of-it air. 
Solemnly Braley, Eddie and Tiney fol- 
lowed his example. They needed it. 

SHERIFF BOB knocked the dottle from 
his corncob, blew noisily into the stem 
to be certain it was clear, and tucked it into 
his pocket, seeming to shed off with it his 
air of somnolent lethargy. Rising briskly, 
he clipped orders right and left. "You 
big feller, take that butler man off upstairs 
somewheres and make him lay down fur 
a spell. He looks plumb beat out. You 
finger-printer, go see that that girl stays 
in her room till we call her. Mosey along 
with us, Moffat. You too, captain, if you 
wanta. We're gonna take a squint at them 
tracks." 

"Nothin' to squint at," Eddie offered, 
helpfully. "Plain as print that a middle- 
sized man chased a big one through that 
garden and " 

"Mebbe so, mebbe so. But men' Danny 
come to Dallas to see th' sights. This is 
one of 'em. C'mon, Son." 

Flashlight in hand, his rifle tucked under 




the other arm, the deputy passed to the rear 
at that smooth running walk that was as 
effortless as it was deceptively fast. Wad- 
dling along in the rear, Sheriff Bob cau- 
tioned the others to keep back, and "leave 
Danny take a squint." 
i Under the rays of the flashlight, the 
trails lay beautifully clear, running straight 
down a cabbage row where the sandy soil 
had been freshly hoed. Gliding along the 



next row, the deputy had not taken a half- 
dozen strides before he stopped and bent 
over to center the light on a jumble of 
tracks. "Oh Bob," he called over a withy 
shoulder — the first time he had spoken in 
the presence of the others. 

"What chu got?" Sheriff Bob inquired, 
drawing alongside. By way of answer, the 
deputy held the light steady, and silently 
pointed at the trail. 

"Watch your step, fellers," Sheriff Bob 
cautioned, then dropped to all fours and 
looked at the maze of imprints, through the 
steel-rims, then over them, then under 
them. "I got it," he said finally, a slight 
tremor of excitement in his even voice. 

"Got what ?" the captain wanted to know. 
"Looks to me like that's a poor place to 
find out anything. Dog tracks and man 
tracks all mixed up." 

"Mix-ups like them there shore are en- 
lightenin' sometimes," Sheriff Bob re- 
marked, enigmatically, then placed both 
hands on his knees and rose with a grunt. 
"Go 'haid, son." 

MORE big man tracks, more of the 
smaller ones. Always the dog tracks, 
mingled with the others. Always, too, the 
story appeared plain, so Moffat and the 
captain thought. A big, long-striding man 
had run down that cabbage row. A smaller 
man had followed, running also, but taking 
shorter strides. 

Presently the deputy jerked to a stop, as 
a bird dog does when the scent strikes 
suddenly. Dropping to hands and knees, 
while the others crowded close to watch, he 
remained there, statuesque for a full half- 
minute. Rising, he played the light cross- 
wise of the rows. Finally he walked di- 
rectly to a dense clump of Juneberry bushes 
a few yards to his left. After threshing 
among the dripping branches for a little 
time he came gliding back, buttoning the 
bosom of his blue flannel shirt over some 
bulky object he had tucked against his 
breast. This time it was Sheriff Bob who 
made the mute interrogation with his eyes 
when the light played over his ruddy face, 



8o 



SHORT STORIES 



and it was Danny who nodded eloquently 
in reply. 

The deputy followed the trail on for a 
little way, then appeared to lose interest. 
"Be in in a minute," he promised, by way 
of dismissing the others, then turned to- 
ward the garage. His flash was playing 
over the interior of it while they trooped 
back toward the house. "Had to give up, 
eh?" the captain remarked, dolefully, as 
they tramped across the service porch. 

"Not precise," the sheriff answered. 
"Reckon Danny seen all he needed to. He 
shore is the sign-noticinest feller you'll ever 
meet up with. 

"Dad-blimmed mean mizzley mornin', 
hain't it?" 

CAPTAIN, how was Mister Cullom, 
morally?" Sheriff Bob asked, after 
they had reseated themselves in the living- 
room, and the corncob had been placed back 
in commission. "What I mean is was he 
kinda dawgy-like?" 

"Doggy-like? I'm afraid I don't quite 
jj 

"Uh-huh, dawgylike. Philanderin' you 
know — a runnin' arter evil wimmen." 

"Oh. We-1-1. In his younger days, John 
had more money than was good for him, so 
it was wine, woman and song — sky limit. 
Then he married a good woman, and cut 
out everything." 

"An' she died?" Sheriff Bob finished, 
patiently. 

"Yes. And since then John had stepped 
out occasionally with the frails and he 
drank — well, moderately." 

"Moderately's a sorter rubbery word 
where drinkin's consarned." 
! "Well, then, I'll say that he hit it a little 
heavier than a man of his age should. No 
protracted sprees, understand, and he never 
got off his feet — just hilarious." 
, "I see. Wal, here comes Danny, so I 
reckon mebbe we better call that butler 
feller down an' chin 'im a little." 
j Re-entering, Danny laid a bundle on the 
sheriff's lap and resumed his former seat, 
leaning the rifle against the mantel within 



easy reach. "The coat and pants were 
hanging in the garage," he said as his 
superior unrolled the bundle, which con- 
sisted of a pair of denim overalls and 
jumper, and an enormous pair of coarse 
work shoes. 

After examining the cob-webbed gar- 
ments carefully, Sheriff Bob laid them on 
the floor beside his chair and turned ta 
Perkins, who just had entered, convoyed 
by Braley. "What's your fa-vor-ite drink, 
Perkins," he asked, without preliminary. 

PERKINS flushed, and his head went 
up. "Tea, sir. Barring a glawss of 
ale when a good quality of it can be pro- 
cured, I habsolutely habstain from halcohol, 
sir — habsolutely habstain." 

"You do the work here in the house — I 
mean sweepin' an' dustin' an' polishin', an' 
sichlike?" 

"To be sure not, sir," indignantly. 
"That's the maid's task." 

" 'Lowed so, but I thought I'd ast. Now 
who does this here coat an' pants b'long 
to?" 

"The garments were left 'ere by a negro 
menial who was employed 'ere as gardener 
several years ago. 'E turned out a bad egg 
and the Master discharged 'im. We've 'ad 
no regular gardener, long since." 

"An' them shoes? They b'long to th' 
nigger, too?" 

The sheriff's voice still droned, his lolling 
attitude remained unchanged as he took the 
shoes from behind his chair and presented 
them. But something prompted Moffat to 
turn quickly and note the effect of the 
question on the butler. For the barest 
fraction of a second, the broad English 
face twitched — whether with surprise, fear 
or vexation, Moffat could not be sure. "I 
cawn't say, sir," Perkins answered, after 
taking the articles gingerly, and examining 
them judgmatically. "'Tis so long since 
'e was 'ere, I cawn't " 

"I see. Sot down in that cheer, will you, 
whilst I try this plaster dingus on your 
foot. Huh! Fits exact, showin' that you 



DAWG TRACKS 



81 



chased that there robber, just as you say 
you did." 

"I am a man of truth, sir. That hall, 
sir?" 

RECKON they is one leetle favor you 
mought do," Sheriff Bob answered, 
handing one of the work shoes to Perkins. 
"Take that there and see how it fits inta 
that cast th' fingerprinter made." 

"Me, sir? Very well, to be sure, sir. 
Lor'lumme, but it matches, exactly! Quite 
extraordinary, I should say!" 

"So should I," Sheriff Bob agreed, rak- 
ing his armchair around to face the ques- 
tioned one a little more squarely. "Plumb 
astonishin', when you stop to think of it. 
You chased th' galoot that was wearin' 
them shoes clean acrost th' yard an' heered 
'im leave in a car. Now Danny finds them 
shoes out in them Juneberry bushes." 

"The bugger must 'ave come back and 
delivered them there." 

"Airplane ur dirigible, do you reckon? 
He didn't make nary track, a-comin' or 
a-gwine. 

"Passin' that fur th' time bein', was it 



a'rainin' any when you chased that Jas- 
per?" 

"Really, I cawn't say, sir. I was fair an- 
gry and in great 'aste at the time, so I 
cawn't " 

"Remember steppin' on ary stray dawg 
out there?" 

"To be sure not. As I 'ave told you 
gentlemen before " 

"Perkins', you're a damn liar — not a fust- 
class, convincin' liar, but just a plain, 
every-day damn liar. Hush now. It hurts 
my innards to hear a man tell 'em like you 
do. 

"Perkins, that little mizzle of rain we had 
""arly last evenin' washed them big tracks a 
mite, but never teched one of yourn. Mean 



t' say that that rain kep' right in betwixt 
you two while you was hazin' that geezer 
down that cabbage row ; ' fannin' his tail 
with a smokestick? 

"'Nother thing, Perkins. That dawg 
stept on a good many of th' big tracks, but 
not ary one of th' little uns. Th' dawg 
was a-walkin'. You two was a-runnin'. 
Still an' yit, he kep' right in betwixt you. 

"Yo're a damn liar, Perkins. Take him 
upstairs an' — Wait a secont. I got one 
more lie I wantchu to tell. How long since 
you c'menced sottin' by Melissa?" 

Chalky-faced now, Perkins trembled and 
licked his dry lips. 

"Keep a-tryin'," Sheriff Bob encouraged 
him. "Th' truth must be in you some- 
wheres, if we kin only dig it out." 

Desperate now, the butler folded his 
arms across his chest and thrust out his 
chin. "I'll talk no more." 

"Ho-hum! Reckon we'll hafta ast her, 
then. Take 'im upstairs somewheres and 
have that big feller squat on 'is neck till 
we need 'im. Fetch that gal down !" 

I GIVE it to you," the captain crowed, 
after Perkins had tramped out in the 
grasp of Tiney, with Braley acting as rear 
guard. 

"So do I," Moffat chimed in, generous 
in defeat. "May as well come clean while 
I'm about it," he grinned, sheepishly. "Of 
course we can understand about them 
tracks, now that you explain it. Perkins 
put on the big shoes and made the trip, 
coming back on the walk. Then he made 
the chase in his own shoes. That right?" 

"Why in course. Never was no doubt 
about that, nohow. Both sets of tracks toes 
out scandalous — one just as slantylike as 
t'other. 01' mole like me could see that 
much, though, of course, it took Danny 
to show me th' fine p'ints." 

"That's what's worrying me yet," the 
captain confessed. "He turned right off 
that trail and went straight to those bushes 
as if he knew those shoes were there." 

"He knowed somethin' was there, 'cause 



82 



SHORT STORIES 



why Perkins made a little half circle in th' 
soil with his right foot, and Danny knowed 
he'd throwed somethin' high an' fur to th' 
left. That was them bushes ready to ketch. 
Easy 'nuff, fur Danny, eh?" 

"Yes — for Danny," the captain grinned, 
then rubbed his palms together gleefully. 
"Circumstantial, of course, but it's air-tight, 
at that. The jury'll give him the frosty 
eye." 

WHAT'S your fa-vor-ite drink, Miss," 
the sheriff asked, when the girl ap- 
peared, red eyed from weeping, her hands 
clasping and unclasping on the arm of the 
rocker into which she had slumped. "Gin?" 
he suggested, when she hesitated. 

She nodded. "I don't drink often, 
though." 

' "I see. Mebbe hit it a mite too hard 
when you do tear loose, though. If you 
don't mind me sayin' so, a person of that 
temperyment never orter tech it a-tall." 

"I never did, and never would have if he 

hadn't " She stopped, confused, and a 

hunted look appeared on her flushed face. 

"I onderstand," Sheriff Bob assured her, 
sympathetically. "Mister Cullom was your 
boss, so you couldn't hardly refuse to take 
a sociable leetle snifter with 'im when he 
ast you to — say like las' night, f instance." 

She nodded again. "That all?" she 
asked, hopefully after he had remained 
silent for a little time. 

Sheriff Bob drawled another inquiry. 
"You do the dustin' an' sweepin' an' sich?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Ab-sol-dem-loot-ly all of it?" he pressed 
her. 

"Yes sir. Perkins is helpless at work 
of that sort." 

Sheriff Bob grabbed one of the andirons 
and jabbed it at her so suddenly that he 
appeared to be about to spear her with it. 
"Then it musta been you that polished the 
'tip of that, eh?" 

Instead of answering, the girl gazed at 
the thing as one fascinated. Her hands 
clenched on the chair arms, and her fore- 



arms stiffened levering her slowly to her 
feet. "Didju?" he prodded her, inexor- 
ably. When she continued silent, he re- 
placed the andiron on the hearth, and 
turned to the captain. "Better have that 
finger-printer take a whack at it, captain- 
not that it makes any great difference. We 
awready got 'nuff evidence 'ginst Perkins 
to hang ten men." 

AS DESIGNED, that brought the girl 
L out of her semi-coma. "Hang Per- 
kins?" she shrilled. "Hang Perkins? Oh 
you can't do that! Perkins didn't do it! 
He didn't, I tell you! . I did it! I killed 
him! I had to! I tell you I had to!".. . 

"Thar, thar, Miss. Don't take on so. 
Hand 'er a snifter, somebody. This is one 
time that she shore needs a bracer. Sot 
now Miss, whilst I tell it fur you. Don't 
talk, 'less I go wrong, an' you hafta k'rect 
me." 

After the captain had sluiced an ounce of 
gin down the girl in two attempts, spilling 
half of it each time in his excitement, the 
sheriff proceeded. 

"You didn't go to no theater las' night. 
But Perkins went somewheres — leastwise 
he was outa reach." 

"Cigarettes," she managed to sob, then 
rocked back and forth, while he droned on. 

"Awright then, Perkins went after ciga- 
rettes, 'bout the time the boss was gittin' 
ready to go to bed, bein' tanked up so copi- 
ous that his body still smelt like a gin 
factory when me'n' Danny went up there. 

AWRIGHT. Now here comes a mebbe- 
**- so — th' fust one I've spoke. Hearin' 
Perkins leave, th' ol' cuss slips on a dressin' 
gown, he bein' 'bout ready to take 'is 
bath " 

"Hold it," the captain interjected. "My 
understanding is that John had taken his 
bath." He glared reprovingly at Moffat. 

"Tain't no sich," Sheriff Bob denied. 
"The tub was clean as a houn's tooth. Who 
clean't it at an excitin' time like that? The 
soap an' the sponge was dry as preachin'. 



DAWG TRACKS 



83 



Wuss still, them towels on th' floor was 
wet. They was too wet. Nobody ever 
coulda dried themselves on either of 'em. 

"Awright, thar's where the mebbeso 
comes in. Here's a naked geezer who 
hain't takented his bath, an' he's got a 
dressin' gown on. Answer is, slipt it on to 
go somewhere in a hurry. Where? 

"Excusin' th' remark, Miss, he smelt 
scandalous of gin' an' so did you, as I dis- 
covered when I escorted you upstairs — 
which same I done to find out about that 
very thing. They was two gin glasses on 
the mantel, so he was here an' you was 
here. 

"Awright, we got another mebbeso. 
Somebody had polished only the tip of one 
andiron, though both of 'em was needin' 
it, all over. The guess was whether you 
an' him was cuddlin' all amicable and Per- 
kins come back an' ketched you, or " 

"I did it! I did it! I had to !" she com- 
menced again. 

"Yes'm," he soothed. "Then Perkins 
come in, an' you tied 'im with that sash 
cord, arter you an' him had toted th' body 
upstairs. Perkins done th' runnin' an' 
shootin' an' sich, bein' bound to he'p you 
out 'cause he's been sottin' by you assidi- 
ous. Incidental, whar's that money?" 

"Under my mattress," she answered, 
wearily. "Honestly, we didn't intend to 
keep it, though. We only took it to make 
the robbery story stand." 

"Wal, don't worry none, Miss. They 
ain't no jury on earth that'll convict you, 
bein's you had a right to defend yourse'f, 



plumb emphatic. All th' mistake you two 
made was that you didn't tell the truth on 
th' take-off, 'stead of fixin' up a lotta 
flummy-doodle bizness with tracks an' 
towels an' sich. 

"At that, though, you moughta got away 
with it, if it hadn't been fur a skirt of rain, 
an' a houn' dawg — an' Danny Simmons." 

THE tribunal dissolved, Tiney and 
Smith leaving for headquarters with 
the prisoners. When the house had been 
locked and the two country officers with 
the captain and Moffat emerged into the 
pale morning light, the sheriff yawned pro- 
digiously, then climbed stiffly into the de- 
crepit flivver, which the deputy was crank- 
ing with mighty force. 

"Wal, so long, fellers," the old officer 
droned, as the machine spat and blew its 
nose, then commenced snorting its desire 
to be off. "Me 'n' Danny shore is much 
obleeged to yuh fur lettin' us watch yuh 
work up that case. 

"If yuh ever happen along down our 
way, drap in' an' mebbeso we kin do as 
much fur you boys." 

The snorting changed to a series of rasp- 
ing groans. The machine started with a 
jerk, then buck- jumped into full speed 
ahead. 

It was a ludicrous sight, but neither 
Moffat nor the captain laughed. As they 
listened, though, the flivver's voice lost its 
harsh impatient note. 

It seemed to them that it was chuckling 
softly. 




*:< - — > 




mart] > t*c* 



10 



Chapter I puckered from long gazing over heat shim- 

mery veld. One sinewy hand hung by its 

A RNOLD paused momentarily in thumb from the belt of his riding breeches; 

/^k his pacing of the room. Brown the other swung a hippo-hide whip from a 

/ from the sun, he was. Lean thong. His soft-soled bush boots had made 

•A- A- and hard from a deep-lying in- no sound as he stalked the polished floor 

terest in everything outdoors of the Governor's office in Nairobi, 

in all of Africa. His eyes were narrow and The young hunter, guide, trader — Jimmy 



A Vast Store of Ivory Worth the Ransom of Many Kings, Weird 

Signals Resounding Through the Jungles — and an American 

Adventurer Who Hated Red Tape 

84 10 



THE BLACK GOD 



85 



Arnold was anything that had to do with 
the great outdoors — turned and bit his lip 
lightly and looked squarely into the eyes 
of Sir David Earl Stewart, Governor of 
Kenya Colony. 

"Governor," Arnold said, "I can't do it." 

"Now look here, Arnold," the older man 
pleaded, "think this thing over. There's 
some deviltry hatching up there and I've 
got to find out what it's all about and stop 
it before it comes to a killing. You know 
what that would mean." 



you. But he's had only six years of 
Africa." 

"Six years! Why, all I've had is eight 
years in this blasted country !" 

Sir David smiled again — a knowing 
smile, this time. "Yes," he said, "but 
you've had a different training. Oxford 
and Africa don't mix too well, unless old 
Father Time comes in." 

Arnold grinned in agreement. "Sure is 
some handicap. Gosh, when that boy must 
have been writing Greek verse I was shin- 




Arnold nodded. "Trouble. Bad trouble. 
But I can't do it. Not but what it's a whole 
man's job that I'd like to look back on and 
feel that I've pulled off. But gosh al- 
mighty, I'd have to write a hundred page 
report about it and I'd have to make out 
an expense account down to the last cent 
and a daily mileage list and — but who's 
your man up there? Why can't he handle 
it?" 

Sir David smiled wryly. "A man called 
Sheldon. Assistant commissioner. Good 
youngster — maybe a couple years behind 
10 



ning mule back in Dakota and getting 
regularly swindled by an old Sioux medi-. 
cine man on pony deals." 

The governor nodded his head. "That's 
exactly what we need. A man who has 
been swindled by crafty Indians in pony 
deals and has learned his experience out of 
it to adapt it to crafty African spellbinders. 
A man who knows natives like you know ; 
them; almost like I know them." 

"Governor, I " 

Arnold looked appealingly at Sir David. 
His eyes dropped to the floor and he started 



86 



SHORT STORIES 



stalking up the length of the room again. 
He wasn't hesitating. Arnold merely 
didn't know how to temper his refusal. 

Sir David tried again. "If you would 
only take government employ as a special 
temporary agent I could wire to Entebbe 
and my colleague there would make some 
allowances for you. But " 

"Yes, but — that's just it," Arnold shot 
back at him, pointing with a long fore- 
finger. "I'd still have to wrap myself in 
a gaudy silken cocoon with sacred red tape. 
Gosh, I'd suffocate." 

. The governor sighed resignedly. He 
could understand this restless man. Sir 
David was not one who had been born to 
the splendor of colonial administration; he 
had won his way along the line from the 
long ago days of the Boer War. 

"That's the damned American of you," 
he growled. "If you wouldn't be so bally 
scornful of necessary authority you'd find 
some of our youngsters to be jolly decent 
chaps and this driveling red tape wouldn't 
bother you. But you're too dashed much 
like a leopard to change your spots. Well, 
if you won't, I suppose you won't. I'll 
have to see if I can find one of our more 
experienced officers to fill the job. But re- 
member, not a word outside. This thing 
is an official secret as yet." 

Arnold grinned. "Governor, how many 
years have you been in Africa, that you talk 
of secrets?" 

Sir David smiled whimsically. "You're 
right. Oh, well, of course there's nothing 
hidden in Africa for those that have ears to 
hear. I suppose you'll pick up a lot of 
underground talk. If you hear anything 
real I would be glad to know about it." 

Arnold chuckled good humoredly. "Any- 
thing that your blawsted British officials 
are too high to hear, yeah? Sure thing. 
I'm going upcountry after some ivory that 
I've heard about, and if I happen on any 
bush telegraph I'll pass the word pronto." 

A worried frown puckered Sir David's 
forehead as Arnold left. Then the wise 
smile spread slowly across his face. Ivory, 
Arnold had said. Just where did the young 



American expect to find — By heaven, 
maybe there wouldn't be any necessity of 
detailing anybody up there after all ! 

FROM Nairobi a bumpety railroad track 
straggles toward the northwest and 
vast Lake Victoria. Two weeks after his 
talk with the governor in Nairobi, Arnold 
sat in this train and damned its dreary 
rattle, bang, crash. ' 

It is about two hundred and fifty miles 
from Nairobi to Kisumu, the port on the 
great Kavirondo Gulf of the inland sea. A 
day and night run if one is lucky, but to a 
weary traveler it seems a week. Mile after 
crawling mile of burned brown veld and 
sparse, flat topped acacia and countless dry 
dongas — the bridges over which make 
African railroading so expensive; and 
every now and then antelope or zebra in 
the distance; and dust. Over everything 
dust. Fine white dust; over the lumpy 
coach cushions, in the food, sticky around 
the collar, smarting in the eyes. 

It is one of the most unpleasant railroad 
journeys in the world. But since it can 
cover in two days a distance that a safari 
could hardly accomplish in twenty, Arnold 
traveled by train and cursed it as he doc- 
tored his eyes against infection from the 
pestilence of flies. 

He alighted from the train at Kisumu 
and cursed it with mechanical finality. As 
he turned away from the carriage he found 
a big, strongly built native grinning at him. 
The man was dressed in an old khaki 
shooting coat and the scantiest possible loin 
cloth. Below each sinewy knee and above 
the right elbow was a garter plaited of 
monkey hair leaving a flash of white tuft. 
He carried a long, beautifully polished 
stick, which was really a spear with the 
head removed, since the regulations of well 
policed Kisumu did not permit natives to 
go armed. 

But Arnold knew very well that the two 
foot long, razor sharp blade of that spear 
was somewhere not far from the shaft. A 
Masai and his weapon do not part com- 
pany. 

10 



THE BLACK GOD 



87 



"K'kos bwana," the man greeted. "Ma- 
leff? Train this time good?" 

"Ha, Barounggo. Never good. Dak 
bungalow. And after bath time come and 
tell me what the talk is in Kisumu." 

ARNOLD had barely entered the 
**■ screened bungalow when he found 
Barounggo at his heels. He wheeled on 
the man. 

"Talk after bath time, I said, Baroung- 
go! 

The Masai raised his stick in the sign 
that was salute as well as deprecation. 
"Yes, bwana, talk is for after bath. But 
there is a gift and — maybe talk goes with 
gift." 

He opened a grass basket and showed 
two beautiful melons, luscious luxuries in 
that parched season just before the rains. 

"Ho, good!" Arnold exclaimed. "What 
friend sends this gift, Barounggo? And 
what talk should there be about a gift of 
two melons?" 

"Bwana — " the man hesitated and looked 
up and down the long veranda and uneasily 
about the compound planted with labori- 
ously cultivated shrubbery. 

Arnold's eyebrows flickered and he, too, 
shot a glance along the veranda. It was 
deserted. Arnold stepped down to the 
stoop and seated himself on the edge. He 
knew his man. The Masai, besides being 
the most warlike, are some of the most in- 
telligent of the Africans. Barounggo had 
been with Arnold for many years and Ar- 
nold knew he was no wild goose chaser. 

"Tell me this talk that belongs to the two 
melons. All the talk." 

"Bwana, there is talk, first, that trouble 
is growing up among the jungle men of the 
North." 

So the great official secret was all over 
the district! Naturally, it would be. But 
what had trouble in the Rudolf province to 
do with melons, Arnold wanted to know. 

"Bwana, the trouble is a young tree as 
yet ; but it has a strong rain in the words 
of a new witch doctor. This man has a 



strong witchcraft. A new juju has come to 
the land." 

BAROUNGGO was off on a tangent. 
The Masai, like the Zulus, like to 
orate. Give them a chance and they will 
declaim all round a story in order, as they 
say, to wrap it with meat before they come 
to the bone. Arnold stopped him. 
"Melons," he said simply. 
Barounggo resigned himself and came to 
the point as directly as his innate sense of 
drama would permit him. "The talk is, 
bwana, that we have taken service with the 
government to go up and stop that trouble." 

"The hell!" This time Arnold was 
startled. Though not accurate, this was 




the fastest bush telegraph that he had 
known. But the melons. Barounggo had 
digressed again. 

"Melons," Arnold repeated. 

"Yes, as to the melons," Barounggo 
agreed. "A Kavirondo savage came to me 
immediately you left and said he was the 
servant of the Banyan trader Khoda Bux 
who has the garden and who remembered 
you with a full heart and sent these melons 
as a salaam." 

That seemed plausible enough. Arnold 
had done some service for the East Indian,' 
and a delicate compliment of a small gift 



88 



SHORT STORIES 



was an Oriental custom. Arnold knew that 
more lay behind that innocence. 

Barounggo glanced about the compound 
again and then hurriedly put in his climax. 
"But the Banyan has been dead a month 
and the savage who brought the melons 
lost himself in the crowds at the bazaar im- 
mediately." 

"Oho! And so?" Arnold's interest was 
more than merely surface now. 

"And so, when talk is of trouble," Ba- 
rounggo returned sententiously, "the wise 
man looks for trouble. Therefore observe 
that melon, bwana. This one, here. And 
consider that this is the limbwa melon 
which the white men say is spoiled by the 
taste of a knife, so they but score the skin 
and break it open in their hands." 

ARNOLD looked closely and saw that a 
clean round hole had been punched 
in the fruit just over the stalk indentation 
and the plug neatly replaced. He whistled 
a thin, tuneless rhythm through his teeth. 

"O-ho!" he exclaimed through clenched 
teeth. "It is possible, Barounggo, that you 
have been very wise. Now what trouble, 
do you think, can come into a melon 
through a round hole ?" 

"Many troubles, bwana," Barounggo 
whispered. "A good witch doctor, such as 
that one where the trouble is, who might 
wish that we should not go into his coun- 
try, could put a strong devil into it. A fool 
could put poison into it." 

True enough, Arnold thought. Poison. 
Or, if the not so generous donor had been 
a white man he might expect to find some 
sort of contact bomb. A bomb was really 
out of the question, but precaution would 
suggest cutting the interesting melon with 
a longish knife. 

He looked at the imperturbable Masai 
and as if divining his master's mind, Ba- 
rounggo reached his hand behind his neck 
and, apparently from out his spinal column, 
produced two feet of shining steel. The 
great blade fitted sweetly onto the end of 
his stick and he handed the weapon to 
Arnold. 



Carefully, gingerly, at full spear's length 
Arnold sawed at the fruit with the keen 
blade. The denouement came with sudden 
swiftness. The fruit split softly open and 
fell apart disclosing its pale yellow interior 
which should have been speckled with 
large, dark purple seeds. Not a seed was 
there. Instead an incredibly swift watch 
spring thing, colored bright red with a 
thick black stripe down either side, wrig- 
gled free and coiled in compact but deadly 
menace. 

"God!" 

Almost as swift as the brilliant coiled 
death, Arnold lunged the great blade at it. 
The steel buried itself in the ground a bare 
inch from the vibrant thing, and it, like a 
watch spring again, flashed once in the sun 
and was gone. 

"Whaul" Barounggo exclaimed. "A 
limpo'-olu! The snake whose evil is as 
great as his belly is small. But a pity! 
Bwana lacks practice with the spear." 

Arnold was breathing hard through his 
nose, still looking at the spot where the 
beautiful death had coiled. Mechanically 
he tugged at the spear shaft, thinking the 
while. There was no doubt in his mind 
now but that there was much more to the 
fuss brewing to the northward than even 
the governor thought. Still, it was none 
of his funeral — or wouldn't be as soon as 
they stopped connecting him up with it. 
He turned to Barounggo. 

"Barounggo, you have shown wisdom. I 
am pleased. There will be a blanket with 
stripes as brilliant as that snake. Make 
no talk with any man. This trouble is not 
our affair. We make safari to the Elgon 
Mountain. We go fast before all the water 
holes dry up and we come out fast before 
the big rain. Six carriers are enough for 
the going. For the return the number de- 
pends upon luck." 

Chapter II 

WITH the morning of the third day 
Arnold was striding out of Kisumu 
at the head of six porters who carried 

10 



FHE BLACK GOD 



89 



bundles on their heads, Barounggo who 
carried only his ever present stick, and a 
wizened, monkey-like Hottentot who car- 
ried an extra gun and the splendid name 
of Kaffec'enq'uamdhlovu, which, in his 
queer, staccato language had something to 
do with the slaying of elephants. 

Old timers who knew Arnold cocked 
their eyes and wondered what big venture 
he was set upon with all that equipment. 
Others, accustomed to seeing the moun- 
tainous impedimenta of rich sportsmen, 
wondered how far this rangy looking fellow 
thought he could go into the interior with 
that insufficiency of food, and how long he 
hoped to keep up that speed. 

As a matter of fact Arnold proposed to 
keep up that speed until eleven thirty. Then 
he would camp under an umbrella acacia 
to let the heat of the sun pass over. There 
was nothing surprising in the proposal ; 
but there was surprise in its accomplish- 
ment — to those six porters. Four miles 
per hour had been the pace set; and the 
men had swung along easily enough. Ex- 
perienced sportsmen's porters they were, 
all of them. 

Presently this white man would wander 
off into the veld and would tramp a few 
miles to shoot some buck or other. Mean- 
While, they would lie on their backs and 
smoke and wiggle their toes in the good 
dust; and when the white man returned 
he would be tired. He would not go much 
farther and they would make early camp. 
There would be meat for them. It was a 
good, easy business, this portering for 
white hunters, and the government saw to 
it that their pay was twenty-five cents a 
day with potto. 

BUT this white man did not wander off 
to shoot anything. At a steady four 
miles an hour he stalked over toward the 
horizon of brown, burned plain. The por- 
ters gabbled among themselves. It was 
just as well to establish their rights at the 
very beginning. Not that they were tired 
or that they couldn't keep up that pace. On 
their own business they could carry heavier 
10 



loads and would keep it up from dawn till 
dark. 

White men were beyond reason. If a 
foolish porter should once show that he 
could do a certain stint of labor the white 
bwana would imagine that he could do it 
again. So they began to blow long moan- 
ing whistles between tongue and teeth and 
to sigh high pitched sighs. They began to 
straggle out till half a mile separated the 
last of them from the tireless white man. 

Arnold wasted no breath in futile ad- 
monition, or even the energy to turn 
around. When he came to a shady mimosa 
he sat quietly under it, lighted his pipe and 
fanned himself with his sun helmet. The 
porters judged this to be the time to come 
up with lagging footsteps and with great 
heaving groans of relief. When the last 
of them had arrived, Arnold rose. He 
spoke only to Barounggo — reflectively, 
almost impersonally. 

"Does it not seem to you, Barounggo, 
that some of these carriers think we have 
arrived in this land but yesterday ? Not till 
the half hour before noon does the safari 
stop." 

And so it was. At eleven-thirty Arnold 
found a suitable umbrella tree, and the cara- 
van, right at his heels, was within its shade 
almost as soon as he was. 

"Three hours rest," Arnold pointed out. 
"Let any man sleep who will. But first, 
in that load are mealies, already parched. 
Each man gets half a portion of potto." 

The surly looks of the porters altered 
with African light heartedness to grins. 
This wasn't so bad after all. Their white 
man was not one to be made a fool of, but 
on the other hand he knew what other 
safaris never seemed to understand — that 
food was good at any time. 

Promptly at two-thirty, Arnold rose. 
"Three hours trek," he announced briefly. 

THE porters took up their loads. There 
was no murmuring. Three hours of 
steady going saw the party on rising land 
twenty-eight miles from Kisumu. It was 
good going. Nearly twice as far as the 



9Q 



SHORT STORIES 



cumbersome sporting safaris made in a 
day's trek. 

To the northward, miles away, a pale 
cone of ghost gray without any tangible 
base stood up out of the dust haze. Al- 
most transparent it looked at that distance. 
It might almost have been a freak of cloud ; 
but the cool wind that blew from it even 
at this distance established it as the snow 
mass of Mount Elgon. The water beside 
which Arnold proposed to camp was snow 
water on its way to feed Lake Victoria. 

There was a little more than an hour of 
sunlight left. Just time enough to make 
camp in comfort. Arnold directed four 
of the porters under the direction of 
Barounggo to cut thorn bush and build the 
customary boma against lions. An hour 
allowed just time enough to build an im- 
pregnable circle of some fifteen feet across 
and eight high and stock it with sufficient 
firewood to last the night through. 

Arnold turned to two other porters. "Go 
and fetch in that buskbok," he commanded 
them. "The young one under that small 
tree." 

The men stared at him, astounded, with 
the ape expression of their kind. The little 
herd of red-brown antelope were feeding 
between four and five hundred yards away. 
How were they, not hunters but porters, 
to carry out this peremptory order? They 
stood and stared dumbly. 

For just a moment they stared at Ar- 
nold. There was something about the white 
man that puzzled them. He spoke with 
such sureness. Perhaps the young buck 
would wait for them. The white man had 
implied it would wait. It might be best 
for them to go. 

So the two porters went. What foolish 
things white men said; particularly this 
white man. They set off, looking back at 
every few paces expecting they did not 
know what. 

SUDDENLY Arnold called out after 
them. "Bring it back whole," he 
shouted. "Without disemboweling it." 
There was another foolishness beyond 



understanding. One always cleaned game 
where it fell. Why carry useless weight? 
The men with quick African superstition 
began to be uneasy about all this mystery 
— which was just what Arnold wanted. 

He smiled thinly to himself as he 
watched them go. Then leisurely he 
walked to a little knoll, sat and kicked 
himself comfortable heel holes for a steady 
position. Carefully he wiped the day's dust 
from his rifle and blew sharply through 
the peep sight. He used the precise Lyman 
.48 and the little sums that went with its 
use came to him automatically. One point 
subtended one inch at one hundred yards, 
was the basic rule. Two inches at two 
hundred, and so on. For open veld shoot- 
ing he kept his gun sighted in for point 
blank at three hundred. He knew his am- 
munition trajectory to drop three and a 
half inches between three and four hun- 
dred and four inches between four and five 
hundred. 

Very well. It was four-fifty. Six points 
would just about do it. The little breeze 
that persisted was not of sufficient strength 
to figure. No old-fashioned guesswork 
about this. All that was required was the 
ability to hold steady. Good eyesight, un- 
shakable nerves, and taut muscles. Arnold 
had all the requirements. 

Taking it easy and without hurry, he 
fired. The young buck leaped high in the 
air and fell, and the rest stood staring 
stupidly at the distant report. Not till the 
porters began to approach did they up-tail 
and race off. 

The little Hottentot, who noted every- 
thing with a monkey-like curiosity, pre- 
tended to be engrossed with his fire. 
Squatting as no white man can, with his 
knees up behind his ears, he ventured a 
question between violent blowings of flame. 

"Master, for what purpose must those 
porters bring the entrails? There will be 
meat enough without." 

Arnold smiled grimly. "For magic," he 
uttered momentously. "There will be a 
witch smelling this night." 

The Hottentot tended his fire in silence 

» 



THE BLACK GOD 



and proceeded to prepare the meal. His 
master had many strange powers, he knew. 
Mysterious powers. 

SINCE Arnold had not expressly ordered 
to the contrary this news of magic that 
night communicated itself to the camp be- 
fore ever the meal was finished. The men, 
as they worked, looked at Arnold with 
uneasiness. The gloom deepened. 

Meat was broiled on sticks and eaten in 
gloomy discomfort, Arnold sitting wrapped 
in black silence. The porters squatted apart 
and whispered to one another. The last 
of the day disappeared and tropic night 
swept over the country. The atmosphere 
was full of apprehension. Arnold sat with- 
out motion and let it all soak well in. 

Suddenly he lifted his head and glared 
across the fire at the huddled bearers. 
Upon his forehead they could discern, 
marked in white, an oval with a spot in 
its center. 

Someone shouted. "Look — it is the 
eye ! The eye that sees within !" 

The men muttered to one another and 
huddled closer. This was witchcraft such 
as their own witch doctors practiced. 

"Bring those intestines !" Arnold's voice 
exploded into the uneasy gloom. 

Kaffa, the Hottentot, scuttled forward 
with the mass. Not without a certain dis- 
gust Arnold pored over the offal. 

"A young buck," he mumbled. "With- 
out horns, without guile, one that had not 
yet learned the way of lies. Truth unwraps 
itself." 

With his forefinger Arnold made a vast 
pretense of tracing out the windings of the 
intestines. With meticulous care he fol- 
lowed the thin tracery of the fatty tissues 
that surrounded the paunch, bending for- 
ward with eagerness, starting with ahs of 
surprise and ohs of conviction, breaking off 
to glare across the fire at the wretched 
porters who watched with the fearful fasci- 
nation of the African for gruesome mys- 
tery. This was divination of the surest 
sort. Only the best of their witch doctors 
could work this magic. And that this white 



man should know it too! It was fear- 
somely horrible to the porters. 

The slow moving forefinger traced the 
fatty nodules and thin windings of veins. 
"This is the house of the evil one," Arnold 
intoned. "This the road that he follows. 
Here is the fate which awaits him. I 
smell him out. I see the evil in his heart. 




Nothing is hidden. Ha, it is finished. I 
make the test — the test of truth. His 
death sits in his shadow and is ready." 

With that he sprang up and stalked be- 
fore the wretched natives who rocked them- 
selves on their hams and gave vent to 
moaning misery. In Arnold's hand ap- 
peared six white pellets — aspirin tablets. 

"Stand up !" he shouted. "Stand up and 
take the test of the magic that does not lie. 
The guiltless one will grow strong from 
it ; the one with evil in his heart — his belly 
will swell with his own poison that he car- 
ries and he will surely die. Up and open 
your mouths and let the guiltless have no 
fear!" 

With something like relief the men stood 
up. They knew all about this kind of or- 
deal. Their own magicians always spelled 
out wrongdoers that way. And it was true, 
if the ordeal was done the innocent never 
suffered; and if one did, why there was 
proof of his guilt. The thing was infallible. 

THE first porter opened his mouth 
obediently. Arnold muttered mumbo- 
jumbo and popped an aspirin into it. The 
man gulped and waited, half uneasy in his 
conscience for past wrong doings, though 
innocent enough in the present instance, 
feeling no sudden cramp in his vitals, he 
began slowly to grin his relief. 

The second porter took the test with 
flying colors. So the third. But the fourth 



9* 



SHORT STORIES 



man in the row was gray with terror. His 
eyes rolled white and the sinews of his neck 
distending dragged down the corners of 
his mouth in a horrible grimace. Sud- 
denly, while the third man was still await- 
ing the verdict of his stomach, the man 
gave an inarticulate howl and bolted out 
into the night through the opening in the 
stockade. Arnold had left it open for that 
very purpose. 

"Whau!" was the endorsement of the 
men. Even Barounggo and KafFa were 
impressed. It was real magic. This had 
been a true witch smelling and the evil one 
had fled rather than take the test which 
would have swelled his belly and killed 
him in agony. 

Arnold couldn't suppress a light smile. 
It was a good hunch and the bluff had 
worked. He had figured that the Rudolf 
crowd, if they thought he was important 
enough to stop with that melon trick, 
would have sense enough to work in a 
man with his porters. A clever man must 
be directing the work in the north. Well, 
it was really none of his business, so he 
should worry. Still Arnold would like to 
have known what the man's plan was. Ar- 
senic in all probability. If he had searched 
the native he might have found something 
interesting. However it was just as well 
that the man ran away. Otherwise he'd 
have had to do something pretty horrid to 
make good his bluff about swelling him up. 

Arnold's ruminations were broken in 
upon by the remaining two porters who 
came diffidently with every right they were 
sure, and wanted their share of the magic 
pills which would make them strong be- 
cause they were innocent. Laughing, Ar- 
nold gave each of them a five-grain tablet 
of aspirin. 

THREE days found the little safari on 
the northern slope of Mount Elgon. 
At that point Arnold had to pick up old 
trails. The information he had gathered 
about this cache of ivory was sure and 
accurate. There remained only the exact 
locale to trace. The story that had come 



to him about the ivory was an alluring left- 
over from the days of the great scramble 
for Africa. Great Britain, Belgium, 
France were all playing the vast game 
of intrigue for control of Central Africa. 
Nominally they were great trading com- 
panies who were just trying to open up 
business. But the trading companies who 
were supported by troops of employees 
who knew how to salute smartly to young 
clerks who openly carried the titles of lieu- 
tenant and captain. Besides the business of 
stealing marches upon each other, these 
"business men" were faced with the always 
treacherous opposition of the Zanzibari 
Arabs who had got into the country before 
them. 

The whole situation was a scrambled 
mess of intrigue and counter-intrigue with 
vast interests jockeying for control. It can 
be imagined what a glorious time was had 
by such traders as Tippoo Tib, perhaps 
the most infamous of all such opportunists. 
A clever organizer unhampered by any in- 
hibitions at all, he sent his raiding parties 
north and south, east and west. The trail 
of slaughter and pillage that he left in his 
wake is but part of African history. 

The methods of those traders, and Tip- 
poo Tib was but one, were simple and 
effective. They would rush upon sleeping 
villages, shoot down all opposition, torture 
the survivors into confessing the local store 
of hidden gold and ivory, and then carry 
them all off, men, women and children, 
as porters for the loot, and eventually to 
serve as slaves. 

Sometimes one of these raiding parties 
never came back. Fate or weather or des- 
perate natives overcame them. The Bu- 
ganda, a tribe of surprisingly advanced 
state of civilization, who lived along the 
shores of Lake Victoria, had put up an 
organized resistance to these raiders. The 
story that had come to Arnold was of a 
large party who had ravaged the country 
for a year and had amassed an incredible 
amount of loot. And then the Buganda 
avengers came upon them. The raiders 
swiftly buried their loot, murdered the 



THE BLACK GOD 



93 



workmen in approved fashion, and moved 
out into the best fighting position they 
could find — and were there very properly 
wiped out by the Buganda. 

That had happened only about fifty years 
ago. Old men lived who had seen that 
fight. The locale was known. Arnold had 
checked up descriptions of it from more 
than one source. What he hoped to find 
now was some old man who had survived 
the slave chain and who could perhaps give 
him some clue as to where all that ivory 
had been buried before the battle. 

When Arnold required information he 
always went to one of two basic sources: 
missionaries or witch doctors. Both, he 
maintained, were excellent people and had 
many points in common, the most useful 
of which was that both had more down- 
right accurate knowledge of their people 
than the most scientific observer could ever 
acquire. 

He now made inquiries, therefore, for 
the oldest witch doctor in the north Elgon 
district and put himself out to make friends 
with him. Nothing patronizing or clumsy 
about his method. He knew the jealousies 
and vanities of all people who controlled 
their less intelligent fellows through super- 
stition. 

ARNOLD had met his hundreds of 
L white men whose religion and con- 
viction it was that the African must be 
dealt with only from the position of lofty 
dominance. It was a good rule, and knew 
all of the arguments and citations with 
which it was so uncompromisingly sup- 
ported. Arnold knew, too, where to make 
the isolated exception. So, from his pres- 
ent camp, he sent Kaffa to the old rain 
maker's hut with a present of tobacco. 

Kaffa knew his ambassadorial duties as 
well as any diplomat. First he told the 
old witch doctor how good he was. Then 
how good his own master was — a brother 
of the craft, no less — and that he sent a 
gift to express his admiration of the other's 
powers. Thus properly appreciated, the 
old magician, instead of secretly opposing 
10 



the superior white man's every move, sent 
him back a goat, and the way was open 
for social amenities. 

Arnold paid a call and sat on the three- 
legged stool of honor before the doorway 
of the hut festooned with bones and dried 
snake skins and claptrap, and took snuff 
with the old faker while the uninitiated 
common herd of the village squatted in a 
wide circle out of earshot to let the two 
wise ones discuss the inner mysteries. 

The two men talked in circles for an 
hour before Arnold dared broach the ques- 
tion that was uppermost in his mind. And 
there he had drawn a lucky number at his 
first venture. This old man knew all about 
that battle of Elgon and all about the ivory, 
too. 

The fakir had not seen the fight himself 
because he had been serving his novitiate 
in the village of another witch doctor far 
away. But the ivory had been buried all 
right, and the Buganda, having foolishly 
speared every last Arab, had not been able 
to find it and had gone away. But some 
information had somehow remained alive; 
for after some seasons had passed a strong 
war party of the Tappuza, who were a 
branch of the great Elgume tribe, had come 
down from the north and had dug it all up 
and taken it away. The old doctor had 
seen it himself ; a vast treasure ; many hun- 
dreds of tusks — thousands, in fact. The 
warriors of the Tappuza covered the plain 
and each man carried a tusk; and there 
were many loads of gold besides. 

The Tappuza were now the strongest of 
the Elgume peoples because — this was a 
secret, he said — they had for some time 
past been carefully trading ivory for rifles 
which the Armenian and Greek traders 
smuggled down from the Sudan. Still, 
there must be an immense treasure left, be- 
cause it was difficult to get guns ; the Ing- 
lesi were so stringent about such matters. 
But all the same, the Tappuza were a 
strong people. And thus and so on the 
witch doctor rambled for a full hour more. 

Arnold came away from that interview 
in a thoughtful frame of mind. Not be- 



94 



SHORT STORIES 



cause that buried ivory had been removed. 
As far as that was concerned, one hole in 
the ground was as good as another. Not 
because the Tappuza tribe who now had 
it were a "strong people" — he had dwelt 
with many a strong tribe before. Not be- 
cause they had it and recognized its value. 
That merely made a trade proposition of 
the deal rather than a treasure hunt. 
Rather, Arnold was thoughtful because he 
believed in luck, or fate or whatever it was. 
In Africa, every now and then, things hap- 
pened. Without one's own volition; out- 
side of one's knowledge; against one's di- 
rect precaution. They just went ahead and 
happened and one was drawn willy-nilly 
into the vortex of that happening. 

THIS was one of those happenings. 
These Tappuza lived up north of the 
Elgon Mountains. They lived, as a mat- 
ter of fact, along the western shore of an- 
other of the huge lakes of the Great Afri- 
can Rift — Lake Rudolf. That was where 
Arnold did not want to go; had refused 
to go. It was of just these Tappuza people 
that Sir David Earl Stewart, the governor 
of Nairobi had spoken. 

Fate; that's what it was. It was too 
circumstantial to be coincidence. It was 
just one of those happenings of Africa be- 
yond the molding of mere man. Man pro- 
poses and Africa disposes. Arnold felt that 
he was being pushed up to the scene of 
smouldering trouble. That was what gave 
him thought. That caution never hurt 
anybody was one of his rules. Another 
one was: figure it all out in advance and 
then jump with both feet. That was why 
he was so seldom hurt. 

To be or not to be? There might be 
profit; there might be danger. Those 
people who were smart enough to make 

two attempts to waylay him might 

' Well, that settled that little question right 
there. They weren't going to get away 
with that funny stuff ! 

Well, then, should he go back south to 
Kisumu, steamer across to Entebbe, see the 
chief executive there, and go officially with 



the lavish pay and expenses that the Nairobi 
governor had offered? Arnold thought of 
the old Aesop fable about the dog who in- 
vited a wolf to dinner; and the wolf mar- 
veled at the other's ease of life — comforta- 
ble kennel, good food, protection from the 
constant fear of being hunted, plenty of 
leisure — until a whistle sounded and the 
dog jumped up and said he had to go in- 
stantly because his master was calling. So 
the wolf preferred to remain a free lone 
wolf. Arnold called Barounggo. 

"Barounggo," he told the Masai, "from 
tomorrow we must catch guides to show us 
the water holes, for that country to the 
north is bad country and the road is not 
known to me." 

Barounggo remained impassive. "Good, 
bwana," he said quietly. "It is moreover 
a happening of fate that in this village is 
a Turcana bush dweller who would return 
to his country. For his food and a present 
at the end of the journey he will show the 
good places; so I have engaged him." 
Arnold flicked an eyebrow at such pre- 
science. The great seer continued, "It is 
already known to me that we go north. 
For three days I have smelled blood on 
my spear blade." 

Arnold grunted with a light laugh: 
"Helluva cheerful prophet you are !" 

Chapter III 

IT WAS a long trek through bad country 
to the region occupied by the strong 
tribe of the Tappuza. In point of distance 
no more than a good day's run in an auto- 
mobile; but to a safari traveling on foot, 
a journey of many parched and thirsty 
days ; so desperately thirsty that one drank 
gratefully the water of the water holes. 
But the burned out plain began to give 
place to rolling higher ground, the begin- 
ning of the escarpment of Lake Rudolf. 
Trees other than thorn bush began to ap- 
pear. Seepage of water showed among 
sheltered rocks. Green herbage grew. 

At the edge of the forest, on the high- 
est available ground overlooking the great 

.10 



THE BLACK GOD 



95 



iake fifty miles away, to take advantage 
of whatever breezes might blow; yet no 
closer, for that again meant descending 
ground and more heat, was the little out- 
post station of Lo Bur. 

It was at Lo Bur where Sidney Sheldon, 
the assistant commissioner was stationed; 
the same assistant whom Sir David decried 
as too young and inexperienced to handle 
the impending troubles with the Tappuza 
people. 

Also at Lo Bur lived Father Ignatius 
van Dahl, a member of the Jesuit Belgian 
Mission. Here he had built a mission 
house from which his hope was to make 
as many as perhaps fifteen converts in the 
course of a year, and to win them to his 
mission settlement by teaching them to 
grow better yams and mealies and bananas 
than they knew how to grow before. As 
assistants Father van Dahl had Lay 




Brother Leffaerts and — a new acquisition 
— D'mitrius Stephanopoulos, zealous con- 
vert from the Greek church in Alexandria, 
who had shortened his name to Stephen. 

It is etiquette in African colonialdom for 
a traveler to call upon the local govern- 
ment authority. It is a pleasing convention 
which disguises the harsh necessity of re- 
porting arrival. Where natives are many 
and turbulent, white men are desperately 
few, with, among the few, the inevitable 
percentage of those who would sell their 
own treacherous souls for gain. It is a wise 
administrative precaution to know the who 
and the why and the where of each new- 
comer. 

In some of the fussier European colonies 
10 



in Africa the process is brutally direct. In 
British Africa, there is no severe inquisi- 
tion, no finger-printing. One pays a polite 
call and discloses one's business in the proc- 
ess of conservation. 

ARNOLD, therefore, presented a rather 
crumpled card to the barefoot sentry 
at the barbed wire gate and followed him 
in to the shade of the veranda. Dilapidated 
brothers of that card were known in many 
parts of Africa. Some men — like the gov- 
ernor in Nairobi, who knew men — were 
glad to see them. Others who had heard 
stories about this strenuous man from the 
wild and woolly West of that uncouth and 
inexplicable country, America, viewed them 
with misgiving. 

Assistant Commissioner Sidney Sheldon 
received the card with a feeling of dismay 
that was akin to panic, which turned to 
smouldering irritation. He sank back in 
his chair and frowned while he fidgeted 
with a carefully clipped blond mustache. 
That man in his district! As if he didn't 
have enough trouble already. There was 
always trouble where Jimmy Arnold was. 

That was true enough on the face of it, 
though some fault could be found with the 
wording. It was not exactly that trouble 
was where Arnold was, so much as that 
the restless Arnold was so often to be 
found where trouble was. Sheldon pushed 
back his chair and called sulkily to a boy 
to bring two whiskey pegs out to the 
veranda and went to meet his caller. 

Arnold had been received by district offi- 
cials before. He had a quite accurate com- 
prehension of what many of them thought 
of him. He knew that they thought it be- 
cause he came and went his own way, that 
he did whatever he did without explaining 
means and motives, and that he went away 
again without making clear exactly what 
he had done. Or, to paraphrase his words 
to the governor, because he would not 
write a hundred page report about his do- 
ings. Such procedure was disturbing to 
the peace of mind of district officials whose 
business it was to read hundred page re- 



96 



SHORT STORIES 



ports upon what was going on in their 
districts. 

Sheldon received his caller with formal 
courtesy and made the formal Anglo-Saxon 
gesture of good will by offering alcoholic 
stimulant. 

Arnold turned the drink down graciously. 
"No peg, thanks very much," he said. 
"Not so early in the day. I'm a confirmed 
sundowner." 

RIGHT there, in the perfectly courteous 
offer and refusal of a drink, was a 
source of irritation to a mind already pre- 
disposed to antagonism. A little thing in 
itself; yet a universal cause of hostility 
throughout the tropics. To any man whose 
system feels that a stimulant during the 
sluggish heat of the day is advisable and 
perhaps necessary, it is a subtle reproof, 
a never admitted sense of inferiority, to 
meet a man whose more robust system does 
not need that stimulant. 

Sydney Sheldon was unconscious of re- 
sentment, yet this impalpable barrier had 
been raised. Courtesy could continue to 
govern all his dealings with this man, but 
there could be no cordiality. Neither could 
Arnold confine himself to the banal pre- 
liminaries of polite conversation. He pro- 
ceeded directly to give the information 
required by law. 

"I report two rifles, Mr. Sheldon; a 
.457 and .300, and a sixteen shotgun. 
About three hundred cartridges all told, 
and two dozen sticks of dynamite." 

Sheldon's jaw dropped to disclose large, 
even teeth and he fussed with his mustache. 
It was his duty to know, but he shrank 
from the barbarous necessity of the direct 
question. Things just weren't done that 
way. Such matters should always come 
out in the process of conversation; or at 
least after a decent period of persiflage. 

"You — you are thinking of prospecting 
for gold here, Mr. Arnold?" 

Arnold felt easier. The stiff prelimi- 
naries done with, he felt he could talk. 

"Shucks, no. There's no gold around 
here — not in the ground, that is. I don't 



know how much the high muck-a-mucks 
have got hidden away somewhere — not yet. 
I carry the dynamite 'cause I never know 
where I may be going; just part of any 
regular kit. I came up here on a yarn 
about some ivory." 

Sheldon's jaw dropped still farther. He 
had heard some disquieting rumors about 
that ivory. If this troublesome trader 
should come stirring up ancient legends 
and if he should discover anything, there 
would immediately be confusion and argu- 
ment and dissension about property rights 
and heaven only knew what else. He set 
out to explain to Arnold with great pa- 
tience all about the difficulties and the 
secrecy of the people, and the almost pro- 
hibitive transport problem — and even a 
hint about the "little temporary unrest." 

ARNOLD nodded appreciatively. "That's 
right, you seem to have quite a bit 
of underground something on your hands. 
I picked up a talk about getting guns in. 
Sounded pretty authentic, too." 

The assistant commissioner shot a quick 
look at Arnold. Where did this uncom- 
promising person get so much information 
that was private news known only to the 
official elect? However, he commented 
only polite surprise. 

"Yeah," Arnold supplemented. "Some 
sixty or seventy guns I'm told; Martin- 
Henry carbines mostly, with plenty ammu- 
nition. If as many as fifty percent of them 
don't blow up there's still enough to make 
heap big trouble." 

Sheldon was suspicious. This was damn- 
ably explicit. More even than he knew. 
Was this man trying to pump him ? Shel- 
don was the unfortunate victim of a tra- 
dition which Sir David could understand. 
He had been reared in the knowledge that 
in every outlying colony might be found 
a certain class of white man who would 
smuggle guns and liquor to the natives. 
No white man of his own class would ever 
descend to such a despicable business. Here 
was a white man distinctly not of his own 
class ; therefore potentially he might belong 

10 



THE BLACK GOD 



97 



to the other class. And this white man 
seemed to possess much suspicious knowl- 
edge. 

"Why, you make a very definite state- 
ment there about the number of guns which 
you say have been smuggled in, Mr. Ar- 
nold," Sheldon questioned his caller. 
"What basis, permit me to ask ?" 

Arnold sensed the thing immediately 
and responded accordingly. There it was 
again, the same old clash between in- 
trenched authority acting according to pre- 
scribed rule and its honest convictions, and 
the individual with an indomitable sense 
of personal liberty. Arnold's reaction was 
always that of the boy who dares to tease 
the policeman. His expression was one of 
innocent mysteriousness. 

"Gossip, Mr. Sheldon," he remarked 
casually. "Just gossip. Native village 
chatter. You know natives, of course ; and 
you must know how many guns have come 
into your district. I'm just retailing scan- 
dal." 

Sheldon was not at all sure how genuine 
was this perfectly true statement. Arnold 
fired a metaphorical sling shot at a wicked 
chance. 

"And I'll tell you another bit of gossip 
that'll give you a laugh. Your reinforce- 
ments from Karamojo are having trouble 
with the monthly mail truck and it's pretty 
sure betting that they'll have to make it on 
foot. Twenty days of foot slog over Africa 
if they're fast." 

That broadside shook the assistant com- 
missioner from his precise reserve. He 
gagged. Words stuttered in his throat. 
This man was a devil. How could he 
know about an urgent appeal for twenty 
more men — and what did he mean by his 
certitude of car trouble? If it were all true 
it would be a condition of desperate seri- 
ousness. But, it couldn't be. This unoffi- 
cial person couldn't know! 

AS A matter of fact, Arnold didn't. He 
had picked up a story about a runner 
having been dispatched two weeks previous 
with a letter going toward the headquar- 



ters of the next district. He knew that 
regular mail communication was by 
monthly auto trucks, with an escort of two 
rifles. From this his simple deduction was 
that news that could not wait for the 
monthly mail must be very urgent. What 
urgent need might there be in the existing 
situation other than a call for help? And 
the bet about car trouble, then, was no 
more than a logical sequence. Having his 
own little experiences about the cleverness 
of the man, whoever might be organizing 
this unrest, in trying to keep him out of 
the game, Arnold felt confident that, if 
reinforcements had been sent for, the same 
alert mind would surely plan to delay them. 
Succeeding would not be a difficult task. 

Arnold left the assistant commissioner 
wondering darkly just what was his pur- 
pose in coming there, and what might be 
his connection with the smuggled guns 
about which he seemed to know so much. 
Arnold chuckled as he went. It was so 
seldom that the bad boy could put any- 
thing over on the policeman. Authority 
always held all the cards; all the might 
of government; all the sources of informa- 
tion ; all the mutual assistance and limitless 
funds. The lone hunter had nothing but 
his wits and such knowledge as he could 
dig out by diplomacy. That made the game 
an interesting contest of skill. 

Chapter IV 

ARNOLD'S next call was on another 
white man at the mission. Here 
there was no card of announcement. He 
found Father van Dahl standing under the 
long fringe of thatch eave over the door. 
A slight, pale figure with deep brown eyes, 
visible above a flowing brown beard and 
mustache, robed in the prescribed habit of 
the order, which had once been black but 
which many suns and many washings had 
faded to a rusty brown, the priest blended 
into the surroundings. There was no alien 
note of newness or harsh superiority; the 
quiet low house and the quiet little man 
belonged in that far African setting. 



98 



SHORT STORIES 



"Mr. Arnold?" The priest held out his 
hand. "They told me you had not long 
arrived. I have heard much of — Arnold 
bwana. You will come in, yes; and the 
boy will prepare the bath. Very shortly 
we eat our little tiffin. You will partake 
with us?" 

Arnold took the proffered hand that he 
could have broken easily in his own brown 
fist and marveled, as he always did, at the 
spirit that could keep so frail a man in so 
thankless a place. The cool dimness of the 
house called to him. 

"Yes, to all of them, Padre, and heaps 
thanks. Exactly what my system needs. I 
hope that all you've heard about me hasn't 
been as bad as some other people have 
heard." 

Father van Dahl smiled wisely. "We 
who live in Africa, after we have lived a 
long time, we understand what to hear and 
how to hear, is it not?" 

He pulled, almost as a bird, at Arnold's 
sleeve ; and the dimness of the house swal- 
lowed them. Through the simple little 
lunch served by Lay Brother Laffaerts and 
the convert Stephen, they discussed Ar- 
nold's search for the hidden ivory. For 
the moment, however, Arnold was inter- 
ested in something else. 

"The ivory can wait for now," he said 
pleasantly. "The question of transport will 
keep it right where it is. But what about 
this new juju that the natives are hanging 
their courage on — what about it, what is 
it? That's more important." 

The priest was immediately grave, his 
eyes those of a pleading spaniel. 

"Yes, yes that is most important," he 
sighed. "They are children, these people; 
they run to follow a show. This idol, it 
makes some tricks. The man is clever, 
and my people leave me. More than a 
hundred there were — what is left? Per- 
haps twenty — perhaps ten. They leave and 
go to howl in the night before that devil 
made of wood. It is the story of Africa. 
Let Brother Stephen tell it. I will leave 
you. I still have some small duties." 

Brother Stephen happened to be well in- 



formed about the idol. An alert mind with 
no hallucinations, he dissected the situation 
with clarity and in fluent English. 

The juju was an unusually large one 
carved out of some black wood, probably 
ebony. It was hardly new, probably an 
antique and had been produced from some 
witch house by its present high priest who 
was a cunning old highbinder. It stood 
upon a roofed platform some thirty feet 
up in a solitary "ghost tree" ; it was hung 
about with the usual collection of bones 
and offerings ; and it did tricks. 

What kind of tricks? Well, its most 
spectacular trick was that its arm and jaws 
moved and it ate offerings — some simple 
system of strings or levers, no doubt, ma- 
nipulated probably from the tree against the 
trunk of which it stood. At certain times, 
proclaimed in advance with all its attendant 
hokum, it talked and gave messages to the 
people. Stage effects, no more, put across 
by a smart knave; but quite spectacular 
enough to capture the infant imaginations 
of the Tappuza savages and to bend them 
to whatever purpose the highbinder had 
in view. 

ARNOLD^ sat with narrowed eyes, a 
L deep straight line running from his 
nose up into his forehead. "There's just 
two questions come out of that," was all 
his comment. "The man or men, whoever 
they are, are playing up to start a fuss. 
Why? The organized intelligence back of 
it all is more than the common witch doc- 
tor has. Who ? If Sheldon knows enough 
to find those two answers he'll know how 
to put the skids under the trouble." 

Brother Stephen thrust out his hands, 
palms uppermost, and his round, dark face 
twisted into a grimace that was not compli- 
mentary. "Mr. Sheldon thinks that the 
way to stop this trouble is to confiscate 
the ivory so that it cannot be traded for 
guns ; and he is hoping to find it." 

"That would cause a riot," returned Ar- 
nold with a nod of certitude. 

"Yes, immediate riot, at once. But he 
will never find it. I could " Stephen 



THE BLACK GOD 



99 



checked himself. "If he were not so high 
and mighty toward a Greek trader I could 
perhaps help him. He had even planned to 
confiscate the juju." 

"And that would have meant that you 
would all have been wiped out. These 
people have too many guns against Shel- 
don's little force." 

"Yes, but I— but Father van Dahl 
agreed with my opinion and persuaded him 
to do nothing so hastily before he had 




many more soldiers. So, you see, we stand 
upon a gunpowder mine. My advice to 
anybody would be to go away before the 
mine blows up." 

Arnold nodded impersonally. "Yeah, 
that would be the wise thing for a man to 
do. But I came up to look into this ivory 
yarn." 

Brother Stephen's hands were eloquent. 
"My friend, let me give you my opinion 
on that matter as a trader of experience. 
Consider. This ivory is no longer a buried 
treasure. It must be bought from these 
people — under government supervision and 
the government tax must be paid. If there 
is not so much of it as you hope the small 
profit is not worth the distance involved. 
If there is enough of it to make it really 
pay, you would need a whole tribe to trans- 
port it. Slow travel with the weight ; one 
month's journey to the railway at Kisumu. 

"This is not the good old days when 
you could dash a chief a few gaudy gim- 
cracks and have him order his men out. 
You would have to pay the rate prescribed 
by the government ; seven hundred men at 
one shilling a day apiece with food allow- 
ance and half pay coming back. And you 

10 



can figure that out — if the government 
would ever permit so many men to leave 
their fields at once. No, my friend, I as- 
sure you, as a business man, this is not a 
trade proposition." 

ARNOLD remained in silent cogitation, 
absorbed in intent examination of the 
end of his second cigar and in the great 
rings he blew to enormous distances in that 
still, warm air. 

"I think you're dead right in everything 
you say," he said at last. "And I think 
I'll go and see if this Sheldon gent is possi- 
bly as good an egg beneath his shell of 
caste as the old governor at Nairobi." 

Brother Stephen's shoulders showed his 
disapproval. "I would not advise you to 
do that, my friend. I assure you he will 
listen to nothing ; he will take no advice — " 
rising passion darkened the sallow face — 
"he will insult you to your face with his 

politeness ; he will What do you want 

to go to him for? You are not interested 
in this thing, you say ; not officially. As a 
trade it is not possible, I tell you. Then 
leave the official to take care of his own 
troubles. Go away before trouble comes 
to you. It is not your affair." 

He ceased abruptly and blinked his round 
eyes, swallowing to control his emotions. 
Arnold blew some more smoke rings in 
silence. 

"You're right again in everything you 
say," he repeated. "Dead right. All the 
same I think I ought to have a pleasant 
chat with Sheldon. And there's Father 
van Dahl's hundred men to be remem- 
bered. It would be a pity to have them 
led astray by a trick juju after they have 
learned to wear white clothes and to grow 
bigger and better yams." 

That apparently forgotten consideration 
was beginning to dawn in Brother Ste- 
phen's face as Arnold left him. 

Well, there was the whole truth about 
affairs. Witch doctors and missionaries. 
Those were the people who always under- 
stood the rest of the people and who had 
the information; Arnold came from the 



100 



SHORT STORIES 



missionary interview even more thoughtful 
than he had come away from the ancient 
witch doctor at the Elgon Mountain. He 
smiled thinly to himself as he walked. 

There was the answer to the first of 
the two questions. Clever lad, Stephen. 
Seemed to know quite accurately about 
everything. The thin smile stretched to 
a grin. Sheldon must have upstaged the 
good Brother pretty stiffly at that. Arnold 
decided to see Sheldon himself that night 
after he'd had his dinner. He'd be all 
dolled up and at his best then. But — why 
didn't Stephen want him to see the assis- 
tant commissioner? His insistence had a 
peculiar ring to it. 

At the mission outskirts one of Arnold's 
porters met him. He had been sent by 
Barounggo to lead the way through a 
jungly path to the camp. They had moved 
from the hasty halt of arrival and had taken 
possession of a deserted stockade with a 
couple of huts in it which they had re- 
paired. It was a strong place. 

"Good," was all that Arnold said. He 
wondered what his two boys had heard 
that had induced them to move into a 
strong place. So close to human habitation 
there were no animal menaces to worry 
about other than the ubiquitous hyenas. 

DESPITE his curiosity Arnold asked 
no questions when they arrived at 
camp. The information would come in its 
own good time. It would be better for the 
present to betray no anxiety. He washed 
up, rested, shaved, ate leisurely. That 
brought him to the time for his after dinner 
visit to the assistant commissioner. He 
signalled to Barounggo to accompany him. 
The Masai was ready; all that he needed 
was to pluck his great spear from the 
ground where it stood upright at the en- 
trance to the hut and to stalk behind his 
master. A thin moon cut black and white 
silhouettes out of the jungle path. They 
walked a while in silence. 

Arnold spoke first after a long trek 
through the bush. "What talk has been 



this day that you moved the camp into a 
strong place?" 

"A small talk, bwam," Barounggo re- 
plied, "yet such as I have heard before a 
letting of blood. Talk was that the Black 
One of the ghost tree will talk this night." 

"Hmh. That is talk that must be heard 
by you or Kaffa, and I must know what 
is said by this witch doctor," Arnold or- 
dered the Masai. 

"Nay, bwana," Barounggo's contradic- 
tion was positive. "The witch doctor only 
calls the names and the titles in advance. 
It is the Black One himself who speaks." 

"Huh!" Arnold grunted and walked on 
in silence. Then softly, "How many men, 
think you, are following behind us?" 

Barounggo showed no surprise. "It has 
been in my mind that three men come run- 
ning softly." 

"Good," Arnold returned. "Now there- 
fore at that bend in the trail where the 
moon strikes do you step swiftly to the left 
and I to the right, and we shall see what 
manner of men come behind us in the 
night." 

Some thirty paces farther the trail 
took a sharp curve. No sooner round it 
than both men ducked into the bush and 
crouched. In a few seconds padding foot- 
steps sounded and the followers trotted into 
view. 

Arnold's eyes narrowed in the dark and 
he took a quick breath. He had seen this 
kind of night runner before. Three 
strongly built savages, naked except for 
their gee-strings, and each carried a short, 
heavy stabbing spear. Their heads were 
thrust forward, the moonlight glinted white 
upon their eyeballs, distended with excite- 
ment, and upon strong, white teeth showing 
between curled lips that panted wide, 
though not with the exertion of their 
stealthy running. Killers they were, and 
the lust of hot blood gleamed from each 
dark face. 

Arnold muttered a curse and hurled him- 
self out of his hiding place in a flying tackle 
at the foremost runner. The man crashed 
down with a startled yelp and Arnold in- 



THE BLACK GOD 



stantly rolled with him into the black 
shadow of the underbrush. 

At the same moment a coughing 
"Whaughl" the war shout of the Masai, 
told him that Barounggo had not hesi- 
tated. His own man was a burly fellow, 
who, after his first surprise, fought in fero- 
cious silence. In the darkness, Arnold, 
clinging to his spear hand, found some dif- 
ficulty in locating the man's head, holding 
it down with his free hand and smashing 
his knee hard under the ear. The squirm- 
ing figure went limp. 

Arnold leaped from that place, ten feet 
in one great bound, to another patch of 
shadow beside the path and crouched for 
whatever might come. Running feet re- 
ceded farther up the trail. A tall, dark 
figure stood with his back to a tree, head 
forward, great spear raised. Arnold was 
at a disadvantage. He tore his automatic 
from his belt holster, though under the very 
shadow of the established law, as it were, 
he hesitated to get himself involved in any 
premature blood spilling. 

But the dark figure in the half-shadow 
of the tree did not move. The head hung 
in the same forward strained position. The 
threatening spear pointed not at Arnold 
but curiously horizontal. In the same sec- 
ond Arnold knew. He whistled thinly and 
pushed his pistol slowly back into its hol- 
ster. He stepped closer softly. The spear 
was not one of the short stabbing spears 
of the killers, but the great weapon of the 
Masai. Four inches of the blade's butt, a 
hand'sbreadth wide, showed darkly red be- 
fore the man's chest. The remaining 
twenty inches of steel were through him 
and fast in the tree trunk behind. 

Arnold was levering the blade loose 
when running steps sounded again. Single 
footsteps. It was the Masai, eager, face 
gleaming with excitement. He stood and 
regarded his handiwork critically. 

"Hau, that was a good stroke. So, now 
three dead." 

Arnold shook his head. "It was not 
good, Barounggo. And three are not dead. 
This one in the shadow we must take and 



bind. It is a bad business. We sit under 
the very mantle of the English ruler, and 
much trouble will be made over spilled 
blood. Sure justice will come in the length 
of days; but we do not want talk and 
bother and interference in my doings now.", 
Arnold stood frowning at the body of 
the killer who was still pinned to a tree.' 
A trickle of blood crawled the length of 
the spear shaft and fell with a plop onto 
a dry leaf. Here was a nasty dilemma. 1 
The three men had quite obviously fol- 
lowed them with murderous intent in the 
third attempt to keep him out of the fer- 
menting trouble. Everything could no 
doubt be proven and cleared up; but the 
one certainty of the whole affair was re- 
strictive delay. 

THE Masai spoke from the shadow 
where he was tying the unconscious 
man's hands with a quickly twisted rope 
of grass. Arnold's antagonist must be 
made safe. 

"Bwana," Barounggo spoke softly, 
"there is a word in my mind. I have 
many times listened to the talk of the 
white priests who say that their great white 
spirit who rules all things has put all 
things into the world for a good purpose. 
This is a hard talk to understand, but a 
little is clear to me. For this good pur- 
pose he has put these many hyenas into 
the land. Let me throw these two dead 
dogs into the first donga and in one hour 
it shall not be known how they died. And 
if bwana will permit likewise this third dog 
who would have murdered us from be- 
hind " 

Arnold grunted a short laugh and came 
to a decision. "You'd make a swell convert 
for the good padre; you have the faculty 
of acceptance of fundamentals. Listen now, 
Barounggo. Thus it shall be. Give these 
two to the hyenas ; this third one take back 
into the stockade; bind and watch him 
well. He must be questioned and we may 
learn something. I go to talk with the 
bwana Inglesi." 
Arnold found the assistant commissioner 



SHORT STORIES 



sitting in his veranda in solitary after-din- 
ner state. He could see the pale glow of 
Sheldon's shirt front, a white splash in the 
deep shadow, long before he reached the 
steps. 

Like any other man, Arnold had grown 
up with certain traditions himself. One of 
these was that to wear anything white was 
a foolish invitation when trouble was 
abroad. The formal greeting concluded, 
the formal drink accepted, Arnold ventured 
a well meant warning. 

"Mr. Sheldon, you ought to be able to 
step out there and look at yourself once. 
You've no idea what a target a boiled shirt 
makes for any sportively inclined native 
who's got one of those Martini-Henry's." 

Sheldon shook his head confidently. 
"Oh, I suppose it is visible at quite a dis- 
tance. But then, Mr. Arnold, one can't 
drop all the conventions of decent civiliza- 
tion just because one happens to be posted 
in a savage country." 

Arnold, dressed in breeches and shoot- 
ing coat, and with frayed cuffs at that, 
grinned to himself in the darkness. He 
had met the same thing all over Africa. 
It was the proper thing to do and it was 
therefore done. Tradition again. And un- 
swerving faith to that tradition. 

But he had come to talk, not to quarrel. 
He approached the subject placatingly. 
"Will you let me ask you a few questions, 
Mr. Sheldon — and let us look at question 
and answer quite impersonally?" 

Sheldon inclined his head. 

"Well, then," Arnold began, "have you 
formed any idea of what is the real bed- 
rock reason for this unrest here?" 

Sheldon weighed his words before an- 
swering. "I don't mind answering that 
question, Mr. Arnold. I say, no, I don't 
know. I believe it to be the work of a 
crazy witch doctor with a sense of his sud- 
den power over his superstitious people in- 
flating his ego. In turn I would ask you 
why you are interested in this unrest?" 

Arnold weighed his answer in turn. "I'm 
interested only, as I told you, Mr. Sheldon 
— that is to say, I was interested — only in 



so far as it affected this ivory story. 
But — " the eyes narrowed to the same hard 
thinness as the mouth — "some nervy gent 
connected with this fuss is so interested in 
me that he's begun to warp my judgment. 
But let's continue to be impersonal for 
awhile yet. Let's suppose, for a moment, 
that everything was quiet here and a man 
should locate this hoard and deal for it 
legitimately. Would you sanction his hir- 
ing porters here?" 

"That would depend," Sheldon returned 
judiciously, "upon how much ivory he 
wanted to take away." 

"Well, suppose that man should tell yoti 
that there were seven hundred tusks ; what 
would you say?" 

"I would say first, Mr. Arnold, that I 
don't believe there is any such fortune of 
ivory in this district; next that that man 
knew very much more about this secret 
than I do; and finally, that I would refuse 
to sanction any such number of porters. 
Why, my good sir, that would be a migra- 
tion. You have no idea what such a tribal 
upset would mean." 

ARNOLD nodded. "Well, leaving out 
the ivory, suppose a man should tell 
you that somewhere in the tribe is a store 
of gold in quills. What would you say 
then to that?" 

Sheldon was positive in his tone. "I 
would tell that man, first, as an officer of 




the government, that he might as well for- 
get it, because the government would not 
permit the tribe to be exploited. That gold 
would have to be paid for at its face value. 
And secondly — " Sheldon's eyes narrowed 
directly into Arnold's — "I would demand 
from that man how he knew so much about 
the ivory as to be able to state its quality 



THE BLACK GOD 



and so much about the gold rumor as 
to know that it was put up in quills? I 
would regard that man, Mr. Arnold, with 
suspicion, and I would watch his every 
move. In fact, I would cease to regard 
the question as impersonal ; and I ask you 
flatly, Mr. Arnold, as the administrative 
officer of this district, how do you come to 
have all this informaton which has not even 
been reported to me?" 

Arnold laughed shortly. "I have not 
all that information, Mr. Sheldon. I 
don't expect you to believe me, but I 
repeat, I'm following a thin trail of a story 
and I'm guessing. But I have one piece 
of information now which I will tell you. 
I'll tell you the rock bottom reason that's 
back of this unrest." 

Arnold pointed his statement with a long 
forefinger. "This whoever it is who is stir- 
ring up trouble is aiming to bring about 
an uprising — it don't matter how quickly 
suppressed or who pays the piper after- 
wards." 

Sheldon permitted himself a smile. "Up- 
risings are always possible in Africa when 
the natives are excited about something; 
but you ascribe an unusual intelligence to 
the agitator. Why, Mr. Arnold, permit 
me to ask, does this witch doctor wish to 
have an uprising? What would be his pos- 
sible gain as against his very sure future 
punishment ?" 

Arnold pointed his forefinger like a gun. 
"Suppose, Mr. Sheldon," he said slowly, 
"that it isn't the witch doctor who is the 
bedrock. Now, this man who's supplying 
the brains wants to get the administration 
out of the way for just a little while — 
no, let me finish please. He wants to get 
it out of the way so that he can make his 
own dicker with whatever chief will be in 
power. He'll arrange with the chief for 
porters at about four cents a day. He'll 
fix up to snaffle all that ivory and that gold, 
to pay for it in trade trash, and to make 
his getaway before the government can re- 
store order and come back to control 
things." 

Sheldon gasped. The statement was too 
10 



audacious. That the unrest might develop 
into an uprising he knew only too well. 
But that the whole thing should be a de- 
liberate plot, so diabolically clever — and 
going on right under his nose — that was 
more than he could assimilate all at once. 

REVOLTING from its acceptance, his 
mind searched for difficulties in its 
conception. He found one almost immedi- 
ately and it was so conclusive that he was 
afforded a laugh. 

"That is a very ingenious theory, Mr. 
Arnold. But you forget an important 
point; I might say a prohibitive point. The 
jolly old transport problem, don't you 
know. While your magician might suc- 
ceed in temporarily dislodging the govern- 
ment in this district he couldn't upset all 
of British Africa, could he? And one can't 
safari several hundred men with elephants' 
tusks hidden about their person; or even 
a few men with gold in quills, for that 
matter. 

"To the northeast across the lake is 
Abyssinia, where they would take every- 
thing away from him in the first day's trek. 
To the north and northwest is the British 
Sudan and desert. Not a single water hole 
in many hundred miles. All the rest around 
us is British Uganda or Kenya Colony — 
not upset by your intriguing genius. And, 
dash it all, we do know what is going on 
in the country. So, where, Mr. Arnold, 
would your man go?" 

"That is the big hole in the argument," 
Arnold admitted, "and maybe I can find 
that out. But let's suppose for a little bit 
longer. Suppose that is the plan, how 
could you stop the trouble before it came 
to an uprising and a white killing?" 

Sheldon's triumph in the argument had 
put him in a more tractable humor. He 
was willing to discuss and disclose a corner 
of administrative policy. 

"That is a problem, I don't mind admit- 
ting," he confessed. "You know, of course, 
that all these African disturbances are the 
work of some single dominant personality 
who understands how to excite the monkey 



104 



SHORT STORIES 



mind of the herd. These poor fools have 
nothing against us ; they are infinitely bet- 
ter off than they ever were before, and if 
they would stop and think they would 
know it. But the excited African can not 
think. Some dominant mind is exciting 
these people by an appeal to their super- 
stitions. Eighty percent of the African 
wars have been started that way." 

SHELDON stopped to shake his head in 
a gesture of resignation. "We don't 
know who the person is in this case, but 
it's obvious that his instrument of excita- 
tion is this blasted juju. You know all 
about the smuggled guns somehow so I 
may as well admit I'm not strong enough 
just now to risk any possible riot." 

There spoke Africa again. Arnold un- 
derstood and nodded. He knew the old 
story by heart. Here was this stiff-necked 
official sitting, as Brother Stephen had said, 
upon a powder mine. Yet the thought 
never even came to him that he might de- 
sert his post. Nor did that thought occur 
to the missionary. Nor, for that matter, 
to Arnold. That was why the white man 
dominated Africa. 

"So the question boils down," Arnold 
said quietly, "to who gets there first. The 
dominant mind with this uprising, or your 
reinforcements." 

"Well — er I suppose that is so, Mr. 

Arnold, since you put it that way." 

"And believe me your reinforcements are 
going to take a long time getting here." 

Sheldon was immediately belligerently 
suspicious again. "What do you know 
about my reinforcements, Mr. Arnold? 
There again you display an unwarranted 
knowledge. I have a right to know your 
source of information and I demand to 
know." 

Arnold held up disclaiming hands. "I 
don't know a darn thing, Mr. Sheldon. 
I'm guessing. You don't believe my 
guesses. When I know anything definite 
I'll tell you. Good night and thanks for 
your information." 



Sheldon listened to the crunch of Ar- 
nold's retreating footsteps on the gravel — 
the khaki coat and breeches had melted into 
the darkness. The assistant commissioner 
just couldn't make up his mind. Was Ar- 
nold all right after all? 

Arnold walked back through the moon- 
streaked jungle path alone, alert with ready 
gun, but not unduly anxious. The domi- 
nant mind, the dispatcher of three killers, 
would hardly have had time yet to ascer- 
tain the result of the mission and to have 
made new preparations. 

His lips were set in a grim smile, but 
Arnold did not devote much time to indig- 
nation. The attempts on his life irked him 
to no little degree, it was true, but his 
mind was engrossed with other things. 
Thoughts flew from point to point in his 
brain; guesses formed, worked themselves 
out or remained as reckonable possibilities. 
Certain things adhered together in an as 
yet intangible train which he voiced to 
himself. 

So Sheldon would regard with suspicion 
a man who knew that there were seven 
hundred tusks and that the gold was put 
up in quills. Arnold wondered about that. 
And the Greek, Brother Stephen as he 
styled himself, doesn't think of himself in 
his own mind as a missionary, but as a 
man of business, a trader. Again Arnold 
wondered. Still the hole remained. Where 
would the man go with the stuff if he got 
it? 

At his camp he inquired about the pris- 
oner. The man had been put into one 
of the huts and was safe. He would keep 
till morning. Arnold turned in to get some 
much needed sleep. He intended to devote 
the next night — when the juju would talk 
— to constructive wakefulness. 

Chapter V 

MORNING brought an interview with 
the prisoner, but it was entirely un- 
satisfactory from every angle. Arnold had 
to look at the man's face but once to know 

10 



THE BLACK GOD 



that there was little hope. It was a brutish 
gorilloid face with wide cheek bones and 
prognathous jaw. The typical gunman 
type in the white race. Dull witted enough 
to be callous nad physically courageous. 

He knew nothing. He had been told to 
go out and do a job, and he had gone ac- 
cordingly. He was to receive a piece, two 
and a half yards, of print cloth in payment. 
He did not hesitate to name the higher up 
who had given him his orders — a certain 
Umbale, a native of the village. It meant 
nothing. Arnold had never hoped that the 
guiding genius would have been foolish 
enough to deal with this stupid tool di- 
rectly. 

Arnold was convinced that that was all 
the man did know. He knew better than 
to try to extort further information under 
threat of death. Only the civilized man, 
educated to dread after life torment, fears 
death. Primitive man lives in too close 
contact with sudden death to be terrified 
by its imminent threat. 

"A spear and the bonga," Barounggo 
suggested. 

"Shut up," Arnold quieted his man. 
"Put the fool back in the hut. Feed him 
and hold him safe. If he cries out drop 
sand in his mouth for a lesson. Perhaps 
later we give him to the bzmna Inglesi for 
justice." 

Arnold went to the official residence and 
asked to look at maps. Permission was 
granted readily enough though with unmis- 
takable suspicion as to motive. Arnold 
spread an enormous roll out on a table, 
weighted the corners and pored over it. 

What Sheldon had said was true. Ex- 
cept for a little corner of Abyssinia abut- 
ting on the lake, the rest was British ter- 
ritory. Miles upon thousands of square 
miles colored pink. It was true, too, their 
territories were well administered. Any 
large safari movement would be reported 
and quietly checked over at some point by 
some outlying resident white official. Par- 
ticularly if the word had gone out that 
something bulky was being smuggled out. 
10 



NO, IT was impossible. Except — Ar- 
nold strained his eyes over the map 
and visualized roads and ways and means. 
Safaris could not just disappear into the 
uncharted wilderness; they were confined 
by certain definite trails by the inexorable 
circumstances of water holes. Kenya 
Colony? The sinewy brown finger trailed 
off hundreds of miles in a wide north-east- 
south arc. Uganda? Westward clear to 
the Belgian Congo. All of it quietly, effi- 
ciently policed. Up to the northwest there 
were no water holes at all. The Tappuza 
wooded country gave way to desert. Four 
hundred miles of blazing sand and rock 
and rubble to the mud village of Rejaf on 
the white Nile. Not a water hole, not a 
tree, not a blade of grass. An empty, 
deadly barrier. 

Yet — an idea began to grow. Desert. 
That meant no water. No water meant no 
rain. No rain meant no steep sided wash- 
out ravines criss-crossing the country. 
That meant level, or at most rolling 
ground; sand dunes. No nourishment for 
man or beast. But — the idea flashed to a 
climax. What was four hundred miles to 
an automobile truck? Had not a French 
Count Somebody-or-other crossed the Sa- 
hara with a train of trucks? 

Arnold whistled his tuneless melodies 
through his teeth and his eyes contracted 
to almost sightless slits. Was there any 
hole in that idea? Rejaf? The Nile? Too 
far up for regular river steamer traffic; 
but native boats plied up and down all the 
time with a worthless assortment of up- 
river trade. Dried mud fish; papyrus 
reed; pottery. All kinds of junk. Miles 
of barren, uninhabited stretches above and 
below the mud town. Many ivory tusks 
could be loaded into the bilge of a native 
boat, covered over with any kind of junk 
and could keep going without question till 
doomsday. Arnold removed his weights 
and the map rolled up with a conclusive 
snap. Well, that filled in that hole. He 
was ready to bet on question why. There 
still remained who? 
Arnold went to have tea at the mission. 



SHORT STORIES 



He talked with the good missionaries about 
nothing in particular ; the gossip of interior 
Africa. People and tribes and local cus- 
toms and railroad developments and isola- 
tion of distances and safari travel and autos 
and airplanes. Airplanes would be the sal- 
vation of the interior. All agreed to that. 
As to automobiles which had opened up 
the rest of the world — the trouble with 
automobiles, said Brother Stephen, was the 
prohibitive expense of bridging the wash- 
out ravines. If it were not for that, there 
were many makes of cars that would stand 
the rough going over the veld. 

Brother Stephen was able, out of his 
experiences during his trading days not so 
long ago, before — with a flashing smile — 
before his reformation, he was able to name 
some of these cars and discuss their merits. 

Arnold came away mumbling to himself. 
Brother Stephen had the knowledge. Did 
he have the nerve? 

Away to his left he could hear a steady 
drumming. He knew the rhythm. It was 
the notice of a ceremony. It would con- 
tinue all day, and that night the juju was 
going to talk. Decidedly, both Barounggo 
and Kaffa would have to go and hear that 
talk. He told them so again. They were 
only too eager. So were the six porters. 
He gave them all leave to go. 

With the beginning of dusk they went. 
Arnold lounged in indolence until full dark 
— till no possible watcher could note his 
movements. Then he too got up with the 
eagerness of one who contemplated a show. 
First he went to the prison hut and assured 
himself that the captive was safe. He then 
opened one of his safari bundles ; one of his 
secrets that not even his own servants must 
know. From a cloth roll he took a fat 
black stick and proceeded to make a black 
face of himself. 

More than once before in his experience 
he had found that the glow of a white face 
in the dark was almost as noticeable as the 
glow of a white shirt front. Arnold was 
going where a white face would be a swift 
passport to a particularly horrible death. 



THE ghost tree stood alone, a giant 
wild fig with enormous horizontal 
limbs and wide, buttressed roots, between 
some of which one might have pitched a 
tent. Half of the spreading base had been 
built up with crooked sticks and thatch to 
form a witch house. Bones, human skulls, 
dried monkey mummies, snake skins — all 
the horrors dear to the African mind hung 
about in gruesome suggestiveness. 

For fifty yards around the tree was a 
clearing, stamped hard by the pounding of 
many hundreds of naked feet. The dark 
clearing was packed just now with naked 




shuffling, heaving bodies, all stamping a 
dull rhythm on the hard ground. A sweaty 
odor of goat pens eddied in the hot night 
air over the human mass. 

Back of the clearing was a treeless scrub 
of tangled bush and stunted thorny mimosa. 
In the scrub Arnold lay on his belly. It 
was pitch black in the shadow, for which 
he was properly thankful. This was as 
near as he dared to come. Arnold had no 
hallucinations about any sleuth ability to 
disguise himself so that he could mix in 
with the crowd. A white man detected in 
that hysterical mob would be torn apart by 
clutching blunt fingernails and big white 
teeth. 

From where he crouched Arnold had a 
clear view of the juju. Halfway up the 
giant tree was its platform — high enough 
for the hocus-pokus of manipulation to pass 
muster. At either corner of the platform 
a smoky wick in a saucer of oil lighted the 
awesome idol; a squatting figure carved 
with all the savage talent for the bizarre ; a 
huge grotesque of jutting angles and vast 

JO 



THE BLACK GOD 



opaque shadows. High lights glittered 
blackly from the knobby, drawn-up knees, 
from the curve of a great, pot belly, and 
reflected out of the higher gloom from the 
outlines of a bushel-basket mouth and glar- 
ing eyes. A clever stage effect of a voodoo 
horror. 

The thick arms which hung between the 
splay feet moved jerkily. The heavy jaw 
chattered on a hinge like a ventriloquist's 
dummy. For a space the thing confined 
itself to these antics while the crowd below 
shuffled and milled in suspense. 

An overwrought savage, nerves taxed 
beyond endurance by the awe-inspiring 
suspense, screamed a high pitched hyena 
laugh, slavering through blubber lips, and 
fell to the ground. He writhed unnoticed. 
His howlings were smothered out in horrid 
gurglings under hard feet. The mob 
moaned in minor keys and closed over him. 
He screamed once more and was silent. 
Shoulders heaved; heads tossed like cattle 
before the break of thunder; eyeballs 
glared white like those of the juju. 

Arnold crouched in his shadow, tense. 
He knew the danger of Africa in that 
temper, This was more than he had come 
prepared to see. 

The looming idol tired of its chatterings 
and its jerkings. It yawned cavernously to 
show inset bones for teeth, each as large as 
dollar pieces. The packed crowd shivered. 
The thing was going to speak. 

THE jaws clicked woodenly. A hollow 
megaphonic voice issued. Arnold could 
make out most of its mumblings. The 
Tappuza dialect was an offshoot of the 
Masai with a sprinkling of Kiswahili. The 
message was meat for the attendant con- 
gregation. It flattered their strength. It 
praised their courage. It promised them 
wealth, and above all indolence. There 
would be nothing to do except sit in the 
shade of their huts and eat. And soon, 
soon, soon, would all these good things be 
forthcoming. Tomorrow it would eat of- 
ferings — Arnold grinned grimly at the in- 



evitable priestcraft — and soon would come 
the sign. 

Africans do not cheer. The crowd 
seethed and its grunts of ejaculation rolled 
back and forth like summer thunder. Ar- 
nold was grave. This matter was closer 
to bloody riot than even he had guessed. 
The juju's trick was most dramatically 
impressive. Its great jaws opened once 
more and commenced on another harangue 
on the wrongs of the black man. Arnold 
listened, and wonder dawned upon him. 
He thanked his various heathen gods that 
he had come. Never would Barounggo 
and Kaffa have been able to report the im- 
portant essence of this speech. His suspi- 
cions crystallized. This talk made every- 
thing clear; everything possible — and in- 
finitely more dangerous. 

The voice that mumbled from above was 
an unmistakable African voice; but the 
claptrap that it dispensed was pure Bolshe- 
vism. The African in himself has no in- 
herent sense of his wrongs; he has not 
evolved to that state. If he is starved, and 
if he is beaten and robbed, he resents it 
with dull apathy. If the starving and beat- 
ing and robbing reach a point beyond hu^ 
man endurance he will rise in a howling 
mob and will rend and slaughter every- 
thing within his reach. 

He will rise and slaughter for other 
causes, too. But of his own volition, never 
because some intangible authority claims 
to own the land upon which he lives, which 
his fathers reclaimed from the jungle; nor 
because he has to pay a tax to that intan- 
gible authority for the privilege of grow- v 
ing yams upon his own land. 

The primitive African is not convinced 
that he is an oppressed proletariat. But 
if he is told that he is ; if he is told it care- 
fully, in words of one syllable; and told 
often; and told the same thing again; and 
with all the force of awesome skullduggery 
to back up that telling — then the possibili- 
ties of the primitive African are devastat- 
ing. No witch doctor could think those 
thoughts. They would be beyond his ken. 
But any African spellbinder could put those 



io8 



SHORT, STORIES 



thoughts across to the herd if some more 
sophisticated intelligence, which knew how 
potent such rhetoric was to inflame the 
primitive mind, would coach him along. 

Arnold's lips framed to a soundless 
whistle. The intelligence behind this cun- 
ning propaganda — the same intelligence 
that had guided three attacks upon his own 
life — was indubitably a white man, or men. 
It was white intelligence that could see a 
huge profit in all that ivory and gold if it 
could dash the jubilant local chief a present 
and make a getaway — maybe by automo- 
bile — across the otherwise impassable des- 
ert. 

ARNOLD'S blood chilled. So that was 
**■ the seed of that plot. A perfect plan, 
carried out with devilish cleverness. In- 
exorable in its progress, and certain, from 
present indications, of success. The little 
white community that would be obliterated 
by the first wave of that mad orgy sat help- 
less. What if he should tell the govern- 
ment authority all that he knew and all 
that he suspected? What if the authority 
believed every word of it? Authority sat 
with empty hands, with a black sergeant 
and six soldiers against who could tell how 
many fairly modern guns? What could it 
do? Apprehend the guiding spirit? Who 
was the guiding spirit? If, acting in des- 
peration upon suspicion it should succeed 
in arresting the evil genius, had not the 
deluge already gained sufficient momentum 
to carry it blindly forward? Authority 
could watch it come; but lacked sufficient 
force to stem it. 

Authority could also run away. But 
Arnold laughed silently. The same tradi- 
tion that made authority wear a boiled shirt 
for dinner in the wilderness would make it 
stick through hopeless odds and against all 
reason to the end. His night prowl had 
given him much to make him very serious 
indeed. So he laughed again out of a 
crooked mouth. 

Suddenly he stiffened. His never dor- 
mant hunter's instinct made him aware of 
a presence near him. Something breathed 



in the black shadows, softly, cautiously. 
It was not an animal ; he knew that at once. 
This was no sniff -sniff-snuffle of any beast. 
It was the slow, careful exhalation of a hu- 
man under the exertion of moving in dead 
silence. 

Arnold cursed himself for a fool. Not 
because he was there, but because he must 
have in his absorption, in craning for a 
better view, made some noise to have be- 
trayed his presence. Some sharp eared 
savage must have detected something in the 
bush and was crawling to investigate. Some 
unusually nervy fellow to go prowling 
about in the outer dark when magic was 
afoot. 

He had been through too many violent 
experiences to have any hallucinations about 
any sort of certitude in the matter of a 
fight. It was only in the motion pictures 
that the intrepid hero could be sure of 
seizing an adversary and choking him into 
instant silence. That silence was desper- 
ately necessary to Arnold. A single cry, 
a scuffle, and that hysterical mob only a 
few feet in front of him would hurl itself, 
screaming and fighting one another, to lay 
clawing hands upon the intruder who had 
dared to spy upon their black mysteries. 

ARNOLD had seen a dog once torn into 
*■ little pieces of rag by the infuriated 
males of a troup of rock baboons. He had 
no foolish shame of flight. He rolled softly 
over from his stomach, and over again. His 
legs felt the prick of a thorny stem. Care- 
fully he drew them up and clear and rolled 
again. He listened. In the clearing the 
crowd still shuffled and murmured. From 
where he had just been his straining ears 
fancied they detected the click of a break- 
ing twig. 

He was on his knees now. How he 
thanked his stars for those days in his 
youth when he had played Indian with real 
Indian boys from the reservation and had 
labored so earnestly to vie with them in 
stalking the hostile brave. He had to feel his 
way, reaching with cautious hands to locate 
bush and overhanging branch and to sweep 



THE BLACK GOD 



*°9 



dry twigs from his path. For a moment 
he thought he had lost his skulking follower. 
Then a soft scrape of thorn upon cloth 
came to him. 

He wriggled under a bush, breathing 
hard. Curse his foolishness in getting in 
such a trap ! The man was good. Arnold 
himself was far from a clumsy stalker, but 
this fellow managed to keep right on the 
trail. Could he smell him? Arnold won- 
dered uneasily. He had heard many 
natives claim that a white man's smell was 
strong and unmistakable. Was this fellow 
following him by scent? Arnold rolled 
with drawn knees through another opening 
— and stopped in the middle of the turn. 

To his left, farther away, sounded an- 
other swishing of disturbed foliage. Was 
the bush full of silent stalkers in the dark? 
And why so blood chillingly silent? 
Why didn't they yell an alarm and call the 
howling pack? But this was no time for 
questions. Arnold scrambled hurriedly in 
a right angle direction. His hand came 
down hard on a two-inch mimosa thorn 
which immediately pierced clear through 
the heel of his thumb. His tortured nerve 
responses forced a hissing intake of breath. 
He lurched on through the passage into 
an apparently more open place — and the 
presence was there. 

It breathed heavily. Soft pats indicated 
a groping hand. Something touched his 
boot. He snatched his foot away. Leaves 
rustled above; a straining grunt; a swish; 
and a soft chuck in the ground where his 
foot had been. 

ARNOLD scuttled desperately from 
there; he didn't know where. The 
noise he made seemed to him appalling. 
There was no mistaking those sounds. He 
might almost have seen the action in broad 
daylight. That had been the vicious 
stroke of a knife. Limping on two knees 
and a hand, Arnold contrived with his teeth 
to get a hold on the broken end of the 
thorn. Its drawing out seared like a hot 
needle. A tangle of thorn barred his prog- 
ress. He wormed to the left of it. A 



bristly stem radiated low hanging arms. 
Farther to the left. More thorns. Arnold 
was in a cul-de-sac. Beyond him sounded 
the rustle and crackle of the other stalker. 
This fellow was not so skillful. Behind 
him came the stealthy crawl of the expert 
with the knife. It was a trap. 

Arnold was unarmed, to all intents and 
purposes. He had his automatic, of course, 
in his belt holster. But as well as use that 
he might stand up and shout his presence. 
The only weapon to this situation was a 
piece of lead pipe. 

He reached out a cautious hand and 
groped the ground for a stone. Something 
to give weight to an empty hand. In this 
hope his luck was with him. His groping 
fingers closed on a large oval that fitted 
nicely to the hand. Arnold crouched on 
knee and one hand and waited. 

Before him, skyward, the far glow of the 
juju's footlights showed blurry patches of 
foliage in silhouette. Around him the 
shadows were black. The very blackness 
took form and swelled and shrank and 
shifted. It was hopeless to try to discern 
anything there. Arnold's heart thumped 
and he took long inhalations to still its 
pounding. Stillness was the most difficult 
thing in his life. 

Suddenly out of the black a hand pawed 
his face. Arnold, shaken from his nervous 
tension, nearly yelled. In the next second 
the other would yell his discovery. A faint 
odor clung to the hand ; not of goat, not of 
sweat, not of plain African dirt — but of 
sandalwood perfume! 

All that came to Arnold out of that star- 
tling discovery was the flash that it ex- 
plained why a knife and not a spear. He 
visualized the knife again, heaved up for 
the instant stroke, and not, this time, at 
where a boot had been. The issue depended 
upon swiftness of decision. Upon which 
of the two would recover first from the mo- 
mentary shock of actual contact. Arnold 
judged his distance and direction, heaved 
his shoulder and swung his long arm over 
with all his might. There was a hard thud 
as the stone struck; a stab of excruciating 



SHORT STORIES 



pain where an overreaching fingernail had 
impacted. A soft, knuckly sound of sub- 
sidence. 

Out in front the juju mumbled guttur- 
ally. The crowd shifted and stamped. This 
thing had been as silent as the best talking 
picture could have wished. To the left 
sounded the scuffling of the other, less 
skillful, stalker, clearly in a tangle himself. 
Arnold began his precarious retreat from 
the trap into which he 1 had crawled. A cer- 
tain elation filled him. He had discovered 
much. The exhilaration of having got out 
of a desperate trap was with him. The 
other clumsy stalker worried him not at all. 
He left him fumbling in the dark and felt 
his own way out from the so nearly fatal 
scrub. i 

Chapter VI 

ARNOLD sat in his tent, without light, 
thinking. So it was established that 
the directing intelligence behind all this 
trouble was white. A knife and sandalwood 
perfume were not native attributes. That 
explained, too, why the stalker had not set- 
tled the issue by simply giving the alarm. 
However friendly with a more intelligent 
chief or witch doctor whom he directed 




from behind the scenes, he would be, as a 
white man, just as forbidden as Arnold 
himself to a voodoo ceremony of the herd. 
Too, the herd, should it be known that a 
white man was directing operations, would 
with natural suspicion be less amenable to 
the spellbindings of their leaders. 

The man was a cunning devil, whoever 
he, or they, were. He overlooked nothing. 



Arnold supposed that he had hidden him- 
self in the scrub to overhear whether his 
lessons were being put across properly and 
to supplement omissions in future lectures. 
Clever. Not a mistake anywhere, except — 
Arnold scowled into the dark — except the 
mistake of starting hostilities against him. 
Three times. Three attempts on his life. 
Somebody was going to pay damages for 
that. 

If — there was always that terrible if — 
the trouble did not break before Arnold 
could, or the assistant commissioner could, 
or somehow somebody could do something ! 
The situation was very near its climax. 
The directing genius would never have 
been so foolish as to announce a practical 
declaration of war unless he knew for cer- 
tain that no reinforcements would suddenly 
arrive out of the south to spoil his plans. 
All that was needed now was the last 
straw; the final match. One good manifes- 
tation of the juju — some spectacular mira- 
cle — and the blue flame that glowed just 
beneath the dark crust of banked fuel would 
blaze out in an orgy of destruction. Let 
almost any little excitement start, and that 
insensate herd would stampede to the kill. 
To stab and thrust and mutilate long after 
the last white man had been killed. That 
was the history of Africa. 

The situation was bad. There was no 
bright ray of hope in the immediate future 
either. Well, anyway — Arnold was able 
to bark a short laugh — there was one 
crafty plotter, who, just about then, would 
be carrying a horribly sore head in a sling. 
He would remember that for awhile. 

Arnold's men came home jabbering in 
awestruck tones about the wonder they had 
witnessed. He sat still and said nothing. 
His mind was occupied. Once, long after 
the men's chatter had died down, he got up, 
fumbled among his duffel, carefully made 
up a package in wrappings of trade cloth, 
and returned to this thinking. It was a 
slim chance, he knew, but the only one. If 
only Father van Dahl would cooperate. 

With earliest morning he went to visit 
the mission. He knew that missionaries 

10 



THE BLACK GOD 



got up at' an appallingly early hour. Father 
van Dahl met him, frail, quiet, smiling a 
welcome through tired eyes. 

"So early, my friend? It is nothing of 
seriousness I hope." 

Arnold was forced to smile in return to 
the greeting, but the smile quickly left his 
face. "Pretty bad, Padre. I've come to 
make medicine. I took in the juju show 
last night." 

"So? That was no doubt difficult — even 
for Arnold bwana, no? Myself, I have 
never seen this ; nor any other white man." 

ARNOLD smiled wryly. "Hm! Don't 
be too sure, Padre. Your — er — are 
your people up yet?" 

"Oh, yes; certainly, yes. Even Brother 
Stephen." The priest smiled indulgently. 
"Though he finds it not so easy as yet. He 
has been not long with us, and our devo- 
tions, yes, they come earlier than those of 
one who has been in the trade world." 

Arnold's eyebrows flickered wide. He 
had somehow expected after the previous 
night's encounter in the bush that Stephen 
would be — but he wasn't exactly sure what 
he expected. Why should he have con- 
nected Stephen with anything at all? 

Just at that moment Brother Stephen 
appeared. He was passing the door, full 
of health, without a care in the world. He 
flashed his ready smile, bustled in, shook 
hands and remarked cheerily on the early 
hour. Immediately, then, he bustled out 
murmuring something about morning 
duties. 

Arnold was nonplussed. He had been 
building a theory upon a suspicion which 
he thought had been clinched the night be- 
fore. Had it been correct, Stephen would 
have been a sick man this morning, a very 
sick man. 

Father van Dahl was talking with fond 
benevolence. "He is a great comfort, 
Brother Stephen. He has a way most 
wonderful with the natives. His great ex- 
perience as a trader — yes, it was a firm 
riiaking much money; Stephanopoulos and 
10 



Righas. Perhaps you have known the 
name, yes? Already we consider him one 
of us, though he is not really a lay brother 
as yet ; but the name pleases him, and he is 
a great help." 

Arnold's brows contracted. "Righas," 
he muttered. "Righas. No, I don't know 
the name. They didn't operate in Kenya 
anywhere." 

The priest shook his head. "No, not in 
Kenya. In Egypt and the Sudan. They 
were well known and were making much 
money — and he has given it all up for our 
work." 

Arnold looked ahead blankly. The Su- 
dan/ That resumed a persistent train of 
thought. But he had come on a more im- 
portant errand than blank speculations. He 
told the priest all that he had witnessed ; the 
impressive performance of the juju; the 
temper of the crowd. 

Father van Dahl was very grave. He 
nodded with understanding. "Yes, yes, 
that is bad. That is very bad. I did not 
know. I hoped — Yes, at any time now 
it may come. My poor people." 

Arnold spoke swiftly, trying to put con- 
viction into an argument that he knew was 
hopeless. "But there is still time, Padre. 
You're not tied down. You're not a gov- 
ernment official glued to his job. You can 
get out. Grab your valuables and go. You 
haven't much to carry and enough of your 
converts remain to act as porters." 

The priest smiled slowly, nodding. "Yes, 
yes, you are a man of the world; you do 
not understand. You can go while you 
have the opportunity. But I — have I not 
also my duties? More even than Mr. 
Sheldon. My people, who for the moment 
have been misled " 

ARNOLD was impatient. "But, Padre, 
have some sense. In a couple of 
months it'll be all over. You can come 

back and " 

The priest interrupted in turn. "In a 
couple of months ? In one day, my son, my 
people will have lost their confidence in 
their pastor. My hundred whom I have 



112 



SHORT STORIES 



so slowly won. Shall the shepherd desert 
his flock?" 

Arnold swore and made no attempt to 
apologize. He had known it would be so. 
Let battle and murder and sudden death 
come or let it pass, the priest was just as 
much an inexorable fixture as was the 
government official. That, too, had been 
written into the history of Africa. 

Father van Dahl laid a thin brown hand 
on Arnold's knee. "And you, my friend. 
I do not perceive you making preparations 
to go, is it not?" 

Arnold swore again. "Padre, there's 
just one chance — a slim chance, if I get all 
the breaks. And since your damned hun- 
dred nigger men whom you've taught to 
grow bigger and better bananas than the 
rest of the savages are more important than 
your life I'm going to take my hat off to 
you and I'm going to take the chance." He 
came closer. 

"Now, listen. Wasn't there some prophet 
in the Old Testament once whose people 
were sliding out on him in favor of an idol 
that pulled magic stuff? Baal, wasn't it? 
And the prophet called miraculous fire from 
heaven and burned the juju up along with 
a batch of priests and so cut the sticks from 
under the opposition's prestige and won his 
crowd back?" 

Father van Dahl perked his head in bird- 
like query. He could as yet see no analogy. 
Arnold continued with totally unconscious 
lack of reverence. 

"Well, now, you give out that you're 
going to do a miracle and set a magic fire 
to this idol; and if my luck works, your 
people'll come crowding back on you so 
fast " 

The priest held up his hand. "My son, 
my son, do not blaspheme." 

Arnold jumped up. He had never any 
patience with matters of sentiments un- 
practical. "Gosh almighty!" he stormed. 
"How can I get you to have some sense 
and understand? It'd take all day — and 
then you'd have some inhibition about it. 
Listen, Padre, I've got no time to argue. 
Things are buzzing right along in these 



backwoods. I'm going out to take a long 
chance; and I'm going to prophesy the 
miracle for you. If it works you win — 
we'll all win and save our scalps. If it 
flops you'll be past worrying." 

He stampeded out without waiting for 
further reply. 

IN ARNOLD'S camp the boys waited ex- 
pectantly; children anxious to relate all 
the wonders of the show they had seen. 
Arnold sat on a camp stool and listened 
with exaggerated boredom. Not the most 
spectacular of the marvels moved him, even 
embroidered by African imagination. He 
flouted the super-juju powers of the idol. 

"That is not such a great witchcraft. I 
have seen many better," he told them. 
"This is but a little jungle juju. Thus 
does it move its arms, its foolish mouth, 
and the words that it talks are winds." 
Arnold imitated the spasmodic antics of the 
thing and its megaphonic voice. 

"Aho! Wo-we!" The boys were im- 
pressed. How did the white bwana who 
could not have seen know these things? 
. "I had heard much talk of this toy and 
it wearied me. I slept and sent my spirit 
to look while I rested." 

"Arra-wa!" Yes, that might well be 
true. The greater of the witch doctors 
could do this thing, and the white bwana 
surely had this magic too. 

Barounggo stood up. He had a speech 
to make and he required space for action. 
"If this is but a little witchcraft, bwana, 
then it is well. For that Black One of the 
Ghost tree — " Arnold noted that even the 
Masai hesitated to name the thing — "the 
Black One makes an ill talk ; a talk of the 
slaying of all the white men in the land. 
Now it is my mind that we in this party 
could make a proper fight. We three alone, 
for these porters all will run as do the dogs 

when the lion speaks " 

Arnold could not but admire the loyal 
fellow's cheerful insult of the porters and 
their meek acceptance of it. The Masai 
gave himself over to declamation. 



THE BLACK GOD 



"A very proper fight. Or perchance in 
the wire stockade of the village, a better 
fight. These soldiers of the Raifuls are 
true men as I have spoken with them. Yet 
these Tappuza dogs are many and in the 
end their spears will be red. Therefore, 
bwana, if the Black One is not so strong as 
he says " 

Arnold yawned carelessly. "It is noth- 
ing. It is a small matter. For us it has 
no interest. But I have told the white 
priest of these babblings and he has said 
it is enough! I have given him a small 
witchcraft and he will burn up this little 
juju with magic fire. Tomorrow, per- 
haps; maybe today. It is nothing." 
. "Aho? A magic fire?" 

The men were awesomely impressed. It 
was sufficient. Arnold knew that this 
planted seed of a counter magic to the 
Black One would sprout and spread 
throughout the community faster than the 
civilized magic of the telephone. 

Kaffa, the little Hottentot, had a word 
to say. He squirmed uneasily making his 
request. "That is good. The white priest 
will make a magic and the Black One will 
burn up and die. Bwana has said so and 
it is without doubt true. Yet — " he writhed 
in his abashment — "suppose that the white 
man does not work his magic right; sup- 
pose that the Black One does not die. An 
offering, a small gift — today he eats offer- 
ings^ — a gift today might well be counted 
in our favor when trouble comes." 

A RNOLD chuckled. It flashed upon him 
**• that maybe his luck was beginning 
to work. At the same time the everlasting 
adherence to type of the African held his 
attention. On the one side the Masai, the 
fighting man, loyal to the death, facing the 
imminent danger with a fierce nonchalance. 
On the other the Hottentot, the bush 
dweller, loyal, too; but as cunningly full 
of caution as a monkey. Maybe this cau- 
tion was playing right into Arnold's hands. 

"What is the manner of this eating of 
offerings?" he asked. 



"It is a strong witchcraft, bwana. Those 
who give place their gifts upon a flat 
basket. In full daylight then a servant of 
the Black One ascends a ladder of bamboo 
with the basket, at no time touching the 
gifts, and places the basket before the Black 
One's feet. The servant retires and the 
Black One takes up the gifts in his own 
hands and eats them up. It is a great 
magic." 

Arnold laughed outright. He quoted in 
English a familiar patter: "Nothing in my 
hands, gentlemen ; nothing up my sleeve ; at 
no time, you will perceive, do I touch the 
card — Gosh, what children ! But it works, 
it works every time!" 

Kaffa was emboldened by the laugh. 
"Therefore, bwana" he pleaded, "I would 
ask an advance against my payment. A 
piece of cloth ; a small gift, bwana. On be- 
half of these porters, too." 

Arnold held himself to pose in judicial 
contemplation, controlling his impulse to 
whoop. Then he announced in a matter 
of fact tone, "Good. I will give you a 
piece of cloth. But it is a waste, for the 
white priest's magic will surely burn up 
this little jungle juju this very day." 

He went into his tent and there he 
pounded his fist into the other palm. His 
luck was running strong! He had been 
racking his brain to think of a means to 
introduce his miracle plan to the juju, and 
here it came to his hand. He took the little 
packet he had made overnight and un- 
wrapped it. 

TWO sticks would be enough, he felt 
sure, though the detonators would 
stand some doctoring. He proceeded to 
doctor accordingly and his tuneless whistle 
broke out. His plan was simple, as simple 
as are most great strategies. He knew 
from his youthful experience of July 
fourth that torpedoes were a lot cheaper 
to make than to buy. A pinch of fulmi- 
nate and little fine gravel wrapped in a 
paper ball provided the most delightful 
material to explode at other boys' heels 



SHORT STORIES 



and to send girls screaming down the street. 

With a certain cynicism he translated all 
his percussion cartridges into giant tor- 
pedoes. He began to feel that he had an 
almost foolproof miracle. The juju, he 
reasoned, from his observation of its move- 
ments, whether actuated by strings or by 
Internal levers or whatever it might be, 
would pick up these offerings and would 
drop them through its cavernous mouth 
into its hollow interior. The figure squatted 
at least five feet high. Arnold knew from 
experience that a: drop of less than that 
was ample to detonate a fulminate bomb. 
With a dozen oversize bombs and two 
sticks of dynamite surely something ought 
to happen. At about four o'clock that very 
afternoon, then, the predicted miracle might 
be counted upon to disintegrate the juju's 
death laden prestige into a great many 
very little pieces of hardwood. 
" Arnold chuckled. He would have to 
witness that miracle. He wrapped his sur- 




prise packet carefully in a gaudy strip of 
trade calico, tied it with string carefully 
against monkey meddling, and came out 
from his tent. 

"Here is your gift," he told the Hotten- 
tot. "A good gift. This order only do I 
place upon you. Carry it with care. Do 
not drop it, on your life. Place it softly in 
the gift basket. And return and report to 
me that it is done. Later you may all go 
and watch the eating." 

The Hottentot took the package gingerly. 
Already it was becoming imbued with the 
sacredness of sacrosanct property. Arnold 
turned in to snatch some sleep. 



Chapter VII 

"fXTTTH early afternoon he gave his 
* * men leave to go and watch the eat- 
ing of the offerings. As soon as they were 
well out of the way he took his field glasses 
and set out himself. He was going to 
watch this show too, if from a distance. 
His way took him past the government 
compound. He had not intended to stop 
in, but a soldier ran after him. The assist- 
ant commissioner wanted to see him. 
Arnold found Sheldon in a condition of 
bewilderment, and in that predicament was 
much more cordial than before. Something 
had happened that had g3fen him a consid- 
erable measure of respect for Arnold's 
judgment. Sheldon came to the point with- 
out preamble. \ 

"Mr. Arnold, a very extraordinary 
thing has happened. I am taking you into 
my confidence because — er — you seem to 
know a great deal of what is going on. A 
man was picked up this noon in the bush 
in front of this juju thing. The natives 
would not touch him — some nonsense 
about witchcraft. My men brought him in 
— a white man." 

Arnold's eyes flickered. He held his sur- 
prise with an effort. He had not expected 

this. "So? A white man, eh? He was 
fi 

Sheldon nodded. "Yes, dead. Killed by 
a blow with a club. There's the usual 
secrecy of course. Nobody knows any- 
thing about him ; never heard of him ; and 
everybody is ox dumb. And as for me, 
I didn't even know that any strange white 
man was in the district. Where could he 
appear from? What could he be doing?" 

Arnold frowned into space without an- 
swering. So the man who had stalked him 
in the bush was dead. At mention of the 
man having been killed with a club he im- 
pulsively squeezed his blackened middle 
fingernail into the palm of his hand and 
winced with the pain. He had hardly ex- 
pected that. At most he thought the man 
would have a very sore head. 

But even that was not exactly what was 

10 



THE BLACK GOD 



occupying Arnold's mind. What he was 
cogitating was whether the death of one 
guiding genius would undermine the 
trouble at its source. Was there only one? 
Who had been the man in the bush with 
him at night? Native? White man? 
Partner, possibly in the great plot. It was 
a big thing for a single man to tackle. If 
only he had captured the man alive! He 
was a white man, not an African. He 
could have been made to talk. 

At any event there was definite proof 
now of some of his theories. With a cer- 
tain triumph he turned to Sheldon. "Well, 
doesn't that begin to fit into what you called 
my fantastic theory about a guiding genius 
behind this trouble?" 

Sheldon nodded dumbly. "It does. I 
admit it. Otherwise why did the fellow 
not come up straightforwardly and report 
his presence? In fact, I don't know from 
where any white man could have come 
through without some report coming to 
me." 

ARNOLD smiled thinly. He thought, if 
k the rest of his theories were correct, 
that he could guess from where a white 
man — who had perhaps a sturdy automo- 
bile — could come without passing through 
a populous and well patrolled country. 
Sheldon was asking another embarrassing 
question. The law training essential to his 
studies for his appointment had rendered 
him adept in picking the holes in any situ- 
ation. 

"All the same, Mr. Arnold, if this man 
were, as you suggest, the guiding genius 
of this unrest, he would be obviously per- 
sona grata with the natives. Who, then, 
would kill him?" 

Arnold did not feel that he could enter 
into explanations and delays. Time was 
passing. During the last minute conviction 
had come upon him about more than one 
of his cogitations. The death of one man, 
one wheel in the carefully built machine, 
would not stop the progress of its function. 
Not at this stage. It had gained too much 
momentum. There remained at least one 
10 



other wheel which, to insure its own safety, 
must now carry on. And there remained 
the juju, potent power of hysteria and 
latent slaughter. He turned the subject. 

"Any source of identification, Mr. Shel- 
don? Name, business, where from?" 

Sheldon made a wry face. "Not yet. I 
dislike that sort of thing myself. My men 
are looking him over in routine form." 

"Well, I'll look in later," Arnold said. 
"I've got to hop along and see the Rev- 
erend van Dahl's miracle do its stuff." 

Sheldon raised his eyebrows in interro- 
gation, but Arnold was gone. He was 
aiming for a scrubby little knoll which he 
had noted before as being suitable for his 
purpose. From it a clear view of the ghost 
tree could be obtained and it was there that 
he proposed to plant himself with his 
glasses. The small delay at the govern- 
ment office had not made him too late. At 
all events he had heard no explosion, so 
he would be, he hoped, in time for the per- 
formance. 

HE WAS. Arnold selected with in- 
stinctive habit a bush which screened 
him from casual observation. Under it he 
stretched himself luxuriously on his stom- 
ach and took his glasses from their leather 
case. Far away from the direction of the 
ghost tree the confused, sublimated thunder 
of drums sounded. This was no call to 
a function, to hear a speech. This was 
just noise; fiesta, sideshow about to com- 
mence. Arnold grinned in anticipation. 

They were going to be seeing a bigger 
show than their tickets entitled them to, he 
reflected, his grin broadening. It wasn't 
every day that these frisky natives could 
see a white man's miracle. 

He wiped the lenses of his field glasses 
and leisurely adjusted focus. It was one 
of the newest Zeiss eight-power hunting 
glasses ; the kind that showed the approxi- 
mate range of the focused object. Instinc- 
tive habit once again made him note it. 
Between seven and eight hundred yards. 
Well, that was plenty near enough to see 
everything that went on. 



SHORT STORIES, 



Arnold could see the ebony figure 
clearly; its inset shell eyes ; its thick jointed 
arms; even the white tips of the big teeth 
between loose sagging lips. The drum- 
ming boomed distant thunder and faded 
out to nothing as the hot breeze eddied 
about. It rose to a crescendo and mingled 
with a sudden volume of far shouting. 
Something was going to happen. Either 
the servant of the Black One was about 
to climb up the ladder with the basket, or, 
if that had been done, the magic perform- 
ance of eating was about to commence. 
Then Arnold noted that no ladder stood 
against the platform. He grinned again — 
cunning precaution that no overwrought 
worshipper should climb up to present him- 
self as a Juggernaut offering and so dis- 
cover the hoax. 

The thing would soon move then. And 
it did. A furious howling came on the 
wind and the juju's jaws chattered in an- 
ticipation. Arnold was keenly interested in 
the mechanism. Elbows firm on the 
ground, he held the glasses motionless. 

The thick right arm moved. With a 
slow clumsy motion the thing groped at 
the basket between its feet. It seemed 
that the thumb worked on a hinge against 
the rest of the hand ; a sort of lobster claw 
movement. Presently the claw found a 
hold on a small bundle. Stiffly the arm 
heaved up; the jaws fell open; the bundle 
hung between the big teeth, then was 
sucked down. The jaws champed wooden 
appreciation. 

Arnold was troubled. From the nature 
of the movement he guessed that the mech- 
anism was man. A man within the hollow 
figure worked a hollow arm and then, when 
the offering was between the jaws, just 
took it in. The poor devil! He couldn't 
know what he was in for. 

But Arnold was consistently practical. 
Better, a hundred times better, the immola- 
tion of one malignantly scheming savage — 
or for that matter, of a dozen men — than 
the rebellion of a whole tribe that would 
mean a slaughter and its aftermath of blood 
in the reestablishment of control. 



He watched each . off ering in turn lifted 
clumsily to the gaping mouth and disap- 
pear. With each gaudy packet he tensed. 
Would it come? Would a sudden explo- 
sion tear the sky? Or, since quite obvi- 
ously the man inside took each bundle in 
his hand and presumably laid it down, 
would he jar it sufficiently to set spark to 
any one of the fulminate torpedoes? 

For a long dragging hour the thing ate 
with gusto. Nothing happened; it re- 
mained full of health and horrid appetite. 
The last of the offerings disappeared. The 
crowd howled; the drums roared. The 
miracle of eating had been accomplished.' 
No counter miracle as .threatened by the 
white priest had occurred. 

Arnold hovered for a moment on the 
verge of panic. His fool proof plan had 
failed. Nothing stood in the way of revolu- 
tion. One white man was dead ; but he was 
surely not working single handed on so 
ambitious a scheme. His associates, so 
near to success, would carry the blooded 
business through. Everything was ready. 
The very threat of the priest's counter 
miracle, by its failure, would enhance the 
prestige of the juju and raise the courage 
of the natives to a howling frenzy. 

ARNOLD bit his teeth together until 
they hurt and forced himself to calm 
thought. What would happen now? What 
would be the next step? The juju man 
would obviously have to remain in hiding 
till dark. Then he could slip out. Arnold 
thought that the ebony figure stood close 
enough to the tree to enable an undetected 
retreat. It must be ; the trick could never 
be worked otherwise. But the packages? 
The offerings? Would they be smuggled 
out at the earliest opportunity so that the 
greedy witch doctor could look over what 
he had drawn; or would they remain till 
a more favorable time? 

There was one chance — only one chance 
left. 

Arnold crawled from his shelter and 
sprinted through the bush for the home 
camp. Then as he ran and his thoughts 



THE BLACK GOD 



117 



raced ahead he slowed down. After all, 
the thin chance that remained depended 
upon the lighting of the footlight lamps on 
the juju platform. There was to be an- 
other speech that night. Possibly the last 
one ; who could tell ? The carefully planted 
rumor about the white man's counter mira- 
cle might be the last straw, the match that 
the blaze of riot awaited. 

Still, there was a dim gleam of hope in 
the forthcoming speech. The crowd would 
begin to gather early, before darkness set 
in, and the opportunity for the magician to 
remove the day's loot from the belly of 
the idol would be unfavorable. The ex- 
plosive packet might well remain there for 
a while. In that hope lay his one chance. 
Arnold decided that he would have time to 
stop in at the government compound to 
urge Sheldon to be prepared for anything 
and to make arrangements, if necessary, to 
bring the missionaries in by force. 

Sheldon thanked him coldly for advice 
that was neither asked nor needed. Every- 
thing for defense had been done as far as 
might be. But Sheldon had one item of in- 
formation. The search of the dead man's 
clothing had revealed the fact that his name 
was Theophilos Righas. 

Arnold stiffened. His eyes narrowed to 
the characteristic slits and in spite of his 
anxiety, the thin grin seamed his cheeks. 

"So? Righas, eh?" That fitted exactly 
into his guessed theories. That was the 
last crooked key piece to the puzzle. With 
assumed carelessness he asked, "Ever hear 
of the firm of Stephanopoulos and Rig- 
has?" 

THE names conveyed nothing to Shel- 
don, though Arnold's tone told him 
that something ought to connect somewhere. 

"M-m, no," Sheldon said. "They didn't 
operate anywhere in Kenya or Uganda — 
wait a minute, though. There's something 
about — " he turned a key in a confidential 
steel file case and flipped over the cards. 
"Yes, here's a report that a firm of that 
name bought a hundred rifles from Daniel 
Leroux and Company in Port Said a year 
10 



ago, but we can't control those sales, you 
know." 

"In Port Said?" Arnold echoed. "And 
from Port Said up the Nile to the ex- 
treme limit of the Sudan and to your bor- 
ders; how about that?" 

Sheldon considered for a moment. "It 
could be done," he said. "That is to say r 
except for that strip of desert." 

Arnold went on. "Then if this Righas 
who bought a hundred guns in Port Said 
got bumped off in Tappuza district where 
somebody has sold guns to the natives, 
somebody did a pretty good job, no?" 

Sheldon was aghast at the untold treach- 
eries that this train of reasoning opened 
up. Indignation and disgust shook him 




like a fever. "The scoundrel received no 
more than his just desserts," he exploded. 
"Why, what a foul thing!" 

Arnold was not listening to any confir- 
mation of what he knew. Another confir- 
mation outweighed everything else. There 
was another partner then. Equally cun- 
ning ; equally callous ; who must now push 
the thing to its desperate climax. Perhaps 
the more cunning of the two. He had cer- 
tainly played a bold and brilliant part. 
Possibly the brains of the outfit. 

THIS was no time to dally. Uncere- 
moniously Arnold left the still raging 
assistant commissioner and ran. Straight 
to his camp he went. Only Barounggo 
squatted in the compound. The rest of the 
boys had gone; scuttled off without leave 
to see the juju show again. To Barounggo 
Arnold gave permission to run off and 



SHORT STORIES 



118 

join the others. He was eager enough, 
but waited to say a word. 

"This is an ill talk that will be this night, 
bwana. It has been said— all men have 
heard it — that the Black One will give 
word for a war." 

Arnold forced himself with an effort to 
nonchalance. It was the white man's creed 
in Africa never to show anything but con- 
fidence before a native. 

"There will be no war, Barounggo. The 
magic of the white priest will burn up this 
jungle juju with a great noise and fire this 
very night while it makes its monkey chat- 
terings. Go and watch it. And tell all 
men that it will happen." 

Barounggo was impressed with his mas- 
ter's power. He lifted his great spear in 
salute and departed. 

Arnold looked after his broad shoulders 
melting into the dusk and his face twisted 
in a wry grin. He wished he could be 
one tenth part as confident as he had 
bluffed. A chance there was that he might 
avert disaster; but the chance was a thin 
One. 

It was his rifle that he had come home 
to fetch. Very soberly he took it, flipped 
its sling over his shoulder with familiar 
certainty, and started out. His objective 
was his observation post of the afternoon ; 
the mound from which he had obtained 
a clear view of the juju ; the knoll between 
seven and eight hundred yards distant. 
Nearly half a mile. 

It was dark by the time he arrived. He 
Sat down and set slowly to kicking heel 
holes at the exact places for a comfortable 
rest. He had never been able to accustom 
himself to the Army sharpshooter's prone 
position. The sitting rest for him every 
time. 

" The distant drone of voices came to him 
|rom the ghost tree, but the lamps had not 
been lighted, yet. With methodical habit 
he wiped off the sights. By meticulous 
feel and by ear he turned the little microme- 
ter screw and clicked off the required ele- 
vation. 

Between seven and eight hundred yards. 



Well, that was easy enough, and no guess- 
work. All he had to do was to count the 
clicks correctly ; the elevation rule was ab- 
solute. A certain glow of contentment be- 
gan to come over him as he worked. This 
was something he knew. He commenced 
to thrill to the test of his skill, of the surety 
of his hand and eye and nerve. His thin 
whistle broke from between his teeth. 

Eight hundred yards call it. There was 
nothing to be alarmed in that. If an Army 
marksman could be expected to hit a bull's- 
eye at that distance and even greater, 
surely the squat juju was a mark large 
enough; and it would be nicely centered 
between two lights. ' 

THAT was one little worry, too. Sup- 
pose the lights were not set in the 
regular positions? To an African a foot 
or so one way or the other would make 
no difference. But the main cause for 
anxiety was the conjecture whether the of- 
ferings had been removed from the belly 
of the juju or not. If, by God's grace and 
good luck, not, well, a bullet carefully 
planted anywhere near the middle of that 
bulk would jar that fulminate off like a 
bolt from heaven. 

And since the dynamite would explode 
upward none of his men would be hurt. 
Arnold didn't want to hurt any of those 
poor fools unless it were necessary. No- 
body would be hurt, unless perhaps a chunk 
of falling juju should hit somebody on the 
head. Arnold whistled some more. From 
his pocket he took a little bottle of radium 
paint and spotted a careful bead on his 
front sight. He squinted through the peep 
at it. Good, it was not too big. 

Wind? Wind was in his face and there- 
fore negligible. Perhaps one point of ele- 
vation. Click. He was ready. The issue 
depended upon his luck. Arnold began 
to feel confident. His luck had been run- 
ning with him. Surely it would continue. 

A point of light began to crawl fitfully 
up the wall of distant blackness. A swell- 
ing hum came downwind. Arnold shuffled 
his heels into secure position. The point 

W 



THE BLACK GOD 



119 



of light mounted interminably; it moved 
horizontally; became two lights; moved 
again; became three lights. The swelling 
hum became breakers on a rocky shore. 
The first light descended and left the two 
horizontal ones. 

ARNOLD tried his glasses. Just dimly, 
k he thought, he could see the ebony 
bulk between its illumination. It looked 
to be middle. Good. Luck had held that 
far. Arnold felt that he was not asking 
too much of the wayward goddess in hop- 
ing that the offerings had not been removed 
from the juju's belly. On the contrary, 
it would have been difficult for anybody 
to remove them between the eating and the 
after-dinner speech. That was all that Ar- 
nold asked. If his bomb were there he 
would hit it, or near enough to it. 

Distance worried him not at all. Dark- 
ness troubled him hardly any more. Only 
one question caused him anxiety. Ex- 
actly where was the inner floor of that 
juju? Where did the offerings lie? The 
thing was a squatting figure some three 
feet wide. Its inner hollow would be, say 
twenty-four inches. Since it was about 
five feet high and since a man had 
crouched within it, it was reasonable to 
assume, Arnold hoped desperately, that it 
was bottomless. The carving, the hollow- 
ing out, would naturally have been done 
from that end. The open shell, therefore, 
probably stood upon the platform itself. 

If that were so he would have to shoot 
middle and about six inches up. If he 
missed — well, he wouldn't miss the target 
— but if his bullet did not smash through 
near enough to his bomb to set it off he 
could shoot again. A one hundred and 
eighty grain bullet arriving into that as- 
sorted mess of hardware — even with a few 
packages of cloth — would disrupt things 
quite considerably. It was just a matter 
of his luck how many times he would have 
to shoot. 

At that distance with wind against him, 
and the crowd howling, nobody would be 
likely to hear anything. And if one did, 
10 



what matter? It would be no more than 
a foolish stranger shooting at a hyena or 
something in the dark. If his first shot 
struck right nobody would hear anything 
because a high velocity bullet arrived at 
eight hundred yards quicker than sound, 
and the explosion would occupy every- 
body's attention for quite the next few days. 

ARNOLD snuggled his cheek down to 
1 the stock and held his breath. This 
was to be the supreme test of his skill, 
of his judgment, of his luck. He was cool 
and unhurried. Evenly he pressed on the 
trigger. He felt the final small resistance, 
steadied to the last little fraction of immo- 
bility, and pressed it home. Instantly with 
the shot, stock on shoulder, his right hand 
shot up to the bolt, slammed it out, in 
again, ready for the next shot. 

But before that lightning maneuver was 
one half accomplished a yellow glare split 
the sky before him. It winked once like 
an enormous eye and closed down on empty 
blackness. A roar hurtled downwind in a 
furious hurry and was gone. And after 
the roar came a prolonged yow-wow of 
shrill yelpings — the cry of Africa in its 
terror. 

Arnold whooped once and let the re- 
mainder of his pent breath escape in a long 
hiss. He wiped his forehead. His im- 
mobility had vanished. He found a tremor 
shaking his whole body, and at the realiza- 
tion a dry laugh croaked from his throat. 
Then he scrambled to his feet in a panic 
and raced to the home camp. It behooved 
him to be innocently within his tent when 
his men arrived with the portentous news. 

He found the camp silent. He went into 
his tent to await the boys. Suddenly he 
remembered. In one of the huts the native 
killer was still a captive. Arnold flashed 
a match in the man's startled face and 
looked him over. He was securely tied 
to the hut's centerpost. With his hunting 
knife, Arnold cut the cords. 

The man couldn't do any damage now. 
Arnold held him by the back of the neck 
and pointed him toward the door. He 



120 



SHORT STORIES 



kicked the man hard, and like a thankful 
rabbit, the fellow bolted. Arnold chased 
him across the compound and then the 
night swallowed the man. 

Arnold lay on his cot and laughed. Re- 
action from the nervous tension and the 
exhilaration of success were upon him. 
His luck had held good — he attributed it 
all to his luck. The consummation of the 
white priest's miracle would thoroughly 
cow the natives — must already have. The 
effect would be instantaneous. Not the 
most unscrupulous scoundrels would stir 
this tribe up again as long as the memory 
of that wonder lived. 

ARNOLD was forced almost to admira- 
* tion. Clever devils, those two. That 
had been a slick scheme to take cover 
under the mission and work right under 
the eye of the administration. An almost 
perfect plot the pair had hatched. If they 
hadn't overreached themselves in their anx- 
iety and tried so hard to get him disposed 
of he might never have come to the Tap- 
puza district. But yes, he would, though. 
It was fate. It was one of those "happen- 
ings of Africa." 

And good Father van Dahl. Now he 
would be a veritable prophet in the land. 
How that backsliding flock would come 
crawling back to its bigger and better yam 
patches, and would bring a lot more with 
them to boot. That was the way to civilize 
the savage — appeal to his belly. All the 
same, the padre would reprove him sadly 
and would pray for his soul for having 

called the thing a miracle. Well 

Arnold's ruminations were broken in 
upon by his returning boys. They trooped 
into camp jabbering in awestruck whispers. 
Arnold left them to chatter for a while; 
they discussed whether they should wake 
the master to tell him the wonder. Finally 
they decided it was a matter of sufficient 
importance. Barounggo stood at the tent 
flap and rang his spear blade like a bell. 

"Well?" Arnold called sleepily from 
within. "Has it happened? Some sort 



of noise I heard. Was it the white priest's 
magic?" 

"Awo, bwana, we do not know what hap- 
pened. From the sky came a fire as of -a 
lightning, only more fierce, and the Black 
One was eaten up." 

Arnold chuckled silently. Well, that was 
just about the same way that the Baal 
miracle did happen. He turned to the men. 
"I told you this would happen. It was a 
good magic. Let one man light the lan- 
tern and go before me. I go to the mis- 
sion house to give the white priest joy and 
to bring back my magic that I gave him." 

WITH the morning "Arnold was at the 
assistant commissioner's office, grin- 
ning all over his rough carved face — well s 
like a juju, Sheldon thought. For the first 
time in their acquaintance the government 
official met him with a smile — a rather 
twisted smile of inquiry, hands in pockets, 
head on one side. These miraculous hap- 
penings had passed beyond the pale of offi- 
cial reserve. 

"What in hell have you been doing, 
Mr. Arnold?" 

Arnold smiled. "Nothing, Mr. Sheldon, 
nothing. Er — I did a little shooting last 
night ; damn good shooting, and I'm proud 
as all heck over it. But I've come to talk 
business. I've located this ivory at last. 
In a couple weeks, I take it, this flurry 
will have settled down to normal, and so 
I want to ask if you'll let me have six 
hundred men for porters." 

Sheldon was pained. He felt in some 
vague way that Arnold had done some- 
thing commendable. He didn't understand 
the whole of it yet, but he disliked having 
to refuse. But administrative regulations 
were adamant; decision was not in his 
hands. 

"I told you before, Mr. Arnold, that I 
could not sanction such a migration. And 
why six hundred men? I thought that 
your very accurate information had made 
it seven hundred loads?" 

Arnold grinned. He had played for just 
that question. "Oh, I can get a hundred 



THE BLACK GOD 



121 



men from the mission ; I require your sanc- 
tion for the six hundred only." 

Sheldon shook his head. "Government 
regulations, Mr. Arnold. I would have to 
apply to the governor in council for so 
great a local upset, and it would take 
weeks to get action. Under no circum- 
stances may I permit so large a body of 
men to move more than one day's journey 
out of their district." 

Arnold was satisfied. "That's quite all 
right, Mr. Sheldon. All I need is a half 
day out into the desert side." 

Sheldon looked his amazement. "I have 
many proofs that you are anything but in- 
sane, Arnold. I'm prepared to find further 
proofs at any moment. So why not sit 
down and explain the joke or the catch 
or whatever it is in this thing?" 

"No catch at all, Mr. Sheldon," Arnold 
assured him. "I've got an auto truck out 
there. A rugby six-wheeler, all comfort- 
ably stowed away under a canvas cover 
and weighted down with stones. Brother 
Stephen tells me it's an excellent car; and 
believe me, that boy knows trucks." 

"Brother Stephen?" 

"Yeah. He sold it to me. I've got a 
map how to find it, and I was careful to 
get a bill of sale — Stephen knows all about 
the business intricacies of these things — 
and my man Barounggo ought to be well 
on his way to sit on the property till I can 
get over." 

Arnold produced a paper upon which, 
sure enough, was scrawled a correctly 



worded bill-of-sale. It was signed D'mit- 
rius Stephanopoulos. 

"Of the late firm of Stephanopoulos and 
Righas," Arnold explained. 

Sheldon began to see the light. With 
stolid British control he withheld himself 
from evincing any undignified curiosity or 
ignorance of happenings. Time would 
come for explanations later — over the din- 
ner table would be appropriate. Yes, over 
the cigars and whiskey peg Arnold would 
talk. Just now he asked only: 

"What sort of services?" 

"Negative, Mr. Sheldon," Arnold re- 
turned. "Mostly negative. His chief ap- 
preciation seemed to be that I didn't twist 
his filthy neck for making three attempts 
to bump me off. I had a mind to, too; 
but I allowed that a good truck would 
balance the annoyance." 

"Humph!" Sheldon grunted. "Perhaps 
I shall do so officially." 

"Maybe, Mr. Sheldon, maybe," Arnold 
agreed. "But I'd almost bet against it. 
Our friend Stephanopoulos went out into 
the dark some time last night, and I'll bet 
that boy is melting into the African land- 
scape right smartly. But to come back 
to the point. Now that I've got a fine 
new truck and a map to the Nile, how 
about those porters for seven hundred 
tusks of ivory?" 

Sheldon grinned. "Well," he said judi- 
cially, "I suppose you've earned them, 
Mr. Arnold." 

His grin widened into a broad laugh. 



African mystery and jungle 
adventure again in our 
next issue 

"The Lame Boy" 

A "Major** novelette by 
L. PATRICK GREENE 

10 




Adventurers 



SHARKING WATERS 



I CAN'T clear the net, Captain. It is 
caught under a coral rock. Maybe 
an octopus or some sharks pulled it 
in there." Ansong, a Moro and my 
head boy announced, as he came up 
from a dive in the waters of my sharking 
station off Zambales, in the Philippines. 

Ordinarily these thousand-foot gill nets 
are set in about thirty or forty fathoms of 
water. But here was a small passage be- 
tween the mainland and a long coral bar; 
and the sharks were in the habit of sneak- 
ing in there and annoying us at the work- 
ing dock. So I had this net hanging there 
at an average of fifteen fathoms ; and had 
had very good results from it, too. 

But now a section of the net had been 
dragged into a hole of an isolated coral 
table, about twelve fathoms down. Since 
my boys could only dive to and work at 
ten fathoms, and only for a few seconds 
at a time, I ordered the diving equipment. 
But none of the boys was willing to go 
down in that helmet; mainly not because 
the upper fifty feet of the air hose was 
white; and sharks had a peculiar habit of 
liking to bite white air hoses. 

Well, a net like that is worth a con- 
siderable piece of money; and I wasn't 
willing to lose it, just because some sharks 
were playing hide and seek with a small 
section of it. So I went down myself. 

Rope-soled shoes on my feet, blue bath- 
ing suit on, knife tied to my wrist, and 
the helmet on my head. Down the weighted 
rope-ladder to cut adrift whatever could be 
salvaged. To crawl into the hole and save 
the entire net was out of the question. 
These were sharking waters; too many 




of these "ivory-plated" visitors coming 
along at the wrong moments. 

I was about halfway through with the 
cutting, when a large shadow slowly passed 
over the ground in front of me, and was 
quickly followed by aiSottier equally slow 
moving shadow. 

I stopped cutting, and felt myself getting 
cold all over. With just a helmet on my 
head, it was not an easy matter to look up. 
The water might rush in underneath the 
throat opening. Anyway, I didn't have to 
look up. Only two things will throw such 
shadows ; either a dugout or a shark pass- 
ing overhead. 

These were sharks; large ones, judging 
by the shadow, and most likely hungry 
ones, too. They had either smelled the 
octopus or sharks which had dragged the 
net underneath the rock, or — worse yet— 1 
they had smelled me. 

If I remained where I was, they might 
either bite through the hose, or come down 
to find out where the small bubbles came 
from; and then they would see me. Just 
a case of "veni, vidi, vici" for them. 

If I tried to get up the ladder, they 
certainly would spot me. And to crawl 
into the hole, where the net was, was out 
of the question. If that was an octopus 
in there, I'd be finished. 

I didn't know what to do. My tempera- 
ture was rapidly changing from cold to hot, 
and back to cold. Then hot again. There 
was the shadow again — it was becoming 
smaller ! That meant Mr. Shark was com- 
ing down — towards me. 

Only one way out, now. One chance in 
a hundred. Take a deep breath, throw off 

s 10 



ADVENTURERS ALE 



123 



the helmet, and make a jump for the top, 
seventy-five feet away. And a wish and 
the hope that the buoyancy of my body 
would shoot me past the shark too quick 
for him to notice and bite me. 

My left hand was still holding on the 
rope-ladder, and I was just about to re- 
lease my hold on it, in order to put both 
of my hands under the helmet for a quick 
push-off, when the ladder was jerked out 
of my hands. 

I lost my breath, and my balance. And 
down I sat on a hard and rough piece 
of coral. Collecting my senses again, I 
got ready for a second deep breath, but 
before I got halfway through with it, I 
saw a large twelve-foot Tiger Shark com- 
ing right my way. 

The intended breath got stuck in my 
throat; my heart seemed to stop beating; 
and my blood was running cold. No way 
out, now! He was only fifteen feet away 
from me. 

Easy ! Easy ! I said to myself. Sit still 
and keep your arms near your body; he 
can't bite through the helmet. He might 
yet smell the bait in the hole behind you, 
and get caught in the net, while trying 
to get in. 

But he didn't. Instead of coming closer 
to me, he very gently and quietly de- 
scended to the bottom and lay down on his 
side. 

I was still half paralyzed, and stared at 
him. And then I saw it. He had been 
shot. My headboy must have seen the 



sharks from our boat, and he had promptly 
dived over and shot the shark with his 
seven-foot-long steel arrows. I could now 
see the arrow sticking out through both of 
his eyes. It had gone through the center 
of his brain, and killed him outright. 

But the other shark! Where was he? 
I had seen two shadows, before. 

There it was again! Right in front of 
my feet, between me and the dead shark! 
But now the shadow changed its shape, 
and I recognized it as that of one of my 
men. 

It was Ansong, who signalled me to come 
up. The ladder was nowhere in sight, so 
I pulled myself up hand over hand, on the 
air-hose. And halfway up I saw the other 
shark ! 

But no more danger from him, now. 
He was very efficiently enmeshed in be- 
tween the rungs of the ladder. When An- 
song had shot the big male, the arrow had 
flitted very close by the female; and she 
had made a quick turn about and accident- 
ally gotten her head right into the ladder, 
which had thus acted just like one of my 
gill nets. 

If she hadn't been caught that way, she 
certainly would have noticed me, when she 
had come down to see what was detaining 
her dead companion. And in that case this 
story might never have been told ; because 
even with sharks — the female is the more 
deadly of the species. 

Captain J. M. Ellrich 



$15 For True Adventures 
TJNDER the heading Adventurers All, the editors of SHORT STORIES will print a new true adventure in eterg 
issue of the magazine. Some of them Witt be written by well known authors, and others by authors for the first 
time. Any reader of the magazine, any where, may submit one of these true adventures, and for eeery one accepted the 
author will be paid $15. It must be written in the first person, must be true, and must be exciting. Do not write 
more than 1000 words; be sure to type your manuscript on one side of the page only; and address it to: 
"Adventurers All," Care of Editors of SHORT STORIES Magazine, Garden City, N. Y. Manuscripts which axe 
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10 



It Takes Real Deep Water Men to Work the Great Log Booms 
of the Pacific Coast Through Rough Weather 




Extra Hand 

By HAROLD F. CRUICKSHANK 

Author of "Wilderness Heritage," "Plugging the Gap," etc. 



CAPTAIN JUD RYAN, 
of the tugboat Galardi, had 
only stopped swearing long 
enough in the past day and a 
half to eat. In the dim light 
of gathering dusk he kicked on the locked 
door of the Marcus Engineering Works as 
if it gave him some satisfaction to boot 
the woodwork; not that it did him much 
good. 

A low chuckle arrested his attention. He 



turned, with a snarl. By the great horn 
spoon! Here was something animate, 
something human on which to vent his 
spleen. He found himself looking into the 
grinning frank face of Tom Saxon, a young- 
ster whose frame stood out well under his 
tight-fitting blue jersey. 

"Was you laughin' at me, kid?" snorted 
the skipper. "By thunder, if you was, I'm 
glad ! I'm glad of the chance to tear some- 
body apart. I'll " He made a lunge 

24 10 



EXTRA HAND 



I23 



at Tom, but the young drifter rolled easily 
off to one side. 

"Wasn't laughin' at you in particular, 
Skipper," Tom jerked. "It was just kind 
of funny you kickin' on that door, when 
you know durned well there's been no- 
body there for the past thirty-six hours." 

"Hunh ! Then where the blazes are they 
at? They knowed I was warpin' the 
Galardi in for engine overhaul. Why, I — 

uh What's the use me talkin' to you 

— a wharf caddy. I'm sunk, blast me. Got 
a season's tows o' log booms waitin' up off 
Rugged Island — tows that'll go to some 
other outfit, an' cost me plenty, if that 
damn Diesel outfit aboard the Galardi ain't 
fixed. Tcha! Where at's this engineerin' 
gang?" 

"On a deep water job — rush call, Skip- 
per," said the drifter. "Salvage boat in 
trouble off the main island. Outbound 
liner in trouble, an' merry hades blowin' all 
round. I — I've been stickin' around my- 
self, hopin' to catch Dawson, the chief here. 
Thought I might pick up a job." 

"Hunh! What was that, kid? You say 
you was lookin' for a job with the Marcus 
company. Why, you got to be a engineer, 
or a mechanic that is somethin', to tie in 
with this company. Tcha! I seen you 
humpin' a salmon catch onto the wharf 
this mornin'. A man who flops around in 
the well of a salmon dory ain't got no 
business lookin' for a job with a marine 
engineerin' outfit like the Marcus — blast 
em. 

"Oh! Well, how'd you like to go take 
a runnin' backward jump into the harbor, 
Skipper!" Tom Saxon's well-muscled 
frame now hung in a crouch. He was 
pounds lighter than the ponderous skipper, 
but the Galardi 's chief had stung him with 
his insults. 

"Scuttle me — I'd boot you clean across 
that bay, for two barnacles, you damn drift- 
er's whelp ! I — ugh !" A clean right hook 
socked hard into the skipper's chin. He 
bellowed with rage, but another stinging 
blow caught him on the point of the chin 
—this time, a left. He toppled back. The 
to 



heel of a big sea boot struck the raised 
guard timber on the wharf edge, and Cap- 
tain Jud Ryan pitched backward into the 
Pacific. 

THE shock of impact, and the cold 
sting of the water saved Ryan from 
taking the count. He struck up with pow- 
erful arms, and swept to the barnacled 
pier piling. A rope dropped overside, an 
end of which Tom Saxon had hitched 
around a bitt. 

Slowly, grumblingly, the sodden skipper 
hauled himself ashore. For a moment he 
stood in a crouch, and shook himself like 
some huge animal. Next, his eyes ranged 
and found Tom Saxon, who had taken a 
seat on a hawser coil. 

"Why, you young salmon-heaver, I'll slit 
your danged gizzard out," thundered the 
skipper. "By the seven-toed prophet ! No 
man ever got away with that on me. I'll 

break every damn bone in your " 

He was interrupted by a chuckle from 
Saxon. 

"Aw, sit down, Skipper," jerked the 
youth. "I got a line on you now. You're 
a Yank, same as me: You're Jud Ryan, 
skipper of the old Mississippi Calahoo. 
I've heard my dad speak of you. He 
claimed you were the youngest, toughest, 
most efficient skipper ever to run a boat 
on ol' man river. Saxon's my name — Tom 
Saxon." 

"Sax-on — Mina Saxon's kid! You — 
well, I'll be keel-hauled for a beachcomber 
if — h'mm. I'd oughta to take you acrost 
my knee an' spank you with a wheel spoke. 
Tom Saxon. But I heard you was with 
some deep water outfit. Cripes — I'm cold ! 
Come on to the Galardi. Mebbe the Chink 
can scare us up some hot coffee. The 
rest of the crew's ashore." 

Over hot coffee, Tom Saxon and his 
dad's old pal swapped experiences. Tom 
had got down beneath the surface bluster 
of this old Mississippi River skipper. He 
was going to like him. 

"An' if you ain't nearly all like your ma", 
Tom," Ryan breathed, "I'll eat all them' 



126 



SHORT STORIES 



wet clothes afore I go to bed. Man, O, 
man, but your ma was purty. Tom, if 
your ma had been some younger, or — if 
I'd been some older, I might've been your 
dad. But we was great buddies, all of us. 
I've fished you out o' the river with a 
boat hook when you was crawlin' round 
my Texas deck in rompers; an' here you 
are — Gawsh !" 

"Yeh, here I am, Skipper, and I'd like 
a look at the Diesel that's givin' you trou- 
ble. What's wrong with her ?" 
• "You mean you're a marine engineer — 
mechanic!" jerked the skipper, slopping 
coffee onto his dry clothing in his excite- 
ment. 

"Enough to apply for a job with the 
Marcus outfit. What seems to be wrong 
with the engine, Skip?" 

"Gome on down into the engine room. 
Take her apart. Come on — Cripes!" 

TOM SAXON was down on his knees. 
Already his face was streaked with 
grease. Wrench in hand, he hung poised, 
his head bent, catching the stroke of the 
Diesel now in motion. He was catching 
the timing, tuning in on the beat, and 
power of the stroke. 

Take the wheel, an' run her out into the 
narrows a mile or two, Skip," he said. 

Ryan swept his huge frame to the wheel- 
house, bellowing orders to the Chinese cook 
who was posted at the hawser bitts 
ashore. 

"Full astern, Tom," he called. "Stop'er! 
Let go on the stern line, Wong. Let go, 
ye galley cod. Now on the for'ard line, 
stand by. Half ahead, Tom — half. Stop 
'er! Let go, Wong." 

The Galardi stood off. Ryan began to 
give his orders to Saxon below. They 
eased off at half astern speed. Ryan 
brought her round into the freeway, clear 
of the wharf and Tom Saxon opened the 
Diesel to lull ahead. 

Tom went thoroughly over the engine 
during the few miles of run. He exam- 
ined the cylinder stroke. His valves were 
afl right. Actually, there didn't seem a 



thing wrong, and yet — the Galardi was 
not picking up speed. There wasn't enough 
power in her to tow a pleasure launch, let 
alone pull a million feet of heavy fir logs 
in rough, deep water. 

Ryan brought the ship about. She was 
a trim craft, the Galardi, a good boat m 
any kind of a sea, but her vitals were weak. 
Even the Marcus people, as good an engi- 
neering outfit as ever operated on the 
Pacific Coast, had failed to put a finger 
on the Galardi 's trouble. 

Lying to, at wharf B, another tugboat 
skipper and his mate chuckled coarsely 
over a bottle of Scotch. 

"There's old Ryan exercisin' the Galardi, 
Mason. She's still got a pain in her belly, 
huh ? Why, you can hear her even now— 




agruntin' like a overfat hawg. Reckon we 
can get his tow business this time. We've 
made no mistake. That Diesel's got 'em 
all fogged." 

"Yeh," grunted the mate of the Maisie 
Dean, Ryan's greatest rival. "Just so long 
as the Marcus outfit is busy, it's all hunky 
dory. But we got to cast off an' hit up 
to Rugged Island. We got to get a boom 
down to Everett an' back before Ryan hauls 
in to Rugged Island. We got to prove 
to that lumberin' outfit that we've got the 
goods. What time do we sheer off?" 

"With the six tide, Mason. Not afore. 
He — he — I ain't enjoyed anythin' so much 
for a long time. But say — you're sure 
that second engineer is okay? You got 
him drilled aplenty?" 

"Yeh — he's safe, an' he's the only one 
of that crew who's a mechanic. Why, the 
first's a pleasure boat man; got hisself in 



EXTRA HAND 



wrong on a dude tour o' the islands an' 
that's why he's aboard the — say — is that 
the Galardi pickin' up power?" 

BOTH senior officers of the Maisie 
Dean rushed topside to the for'ard 
head. The Galardi was picking up power. 
She was running at over twelve knots. 

"Better not wait for that six o'clock tide, 
Skipper," growled the mate. "Somethin's 
happened. By gravy, if it has, somebody's 
goin' to get his !" 

The skipper turned and bellowed to his 
second engineer. 

"Tune her up," he snarled. "We're 
shovin' off, at once." 

"Aye, aye, sir." The engineer dropped 
below and soon the powerful Diesel of the 
Maisie Dean was quaking her decks. 

"An' you found it — you found the trou- 
ble, Tom !" Jud Ryan was kneeling down, 
peering into the small engine room, his 
face agleam in the light of an electric bulb. 

"Yes, I got it, Skipper — got something. 
It was in the air receiver. The engine 
wasn't pulling in enough air." 

"Oh, I see. But why the blazes couldn't 
my engine crew discover that. Hell! I 
been rompin' all over for weeks, tryin' to 
get a line on that trouble. I've been payin' 

a first an' second engineer to — to " 

i "Well, listen, Skipper — don't blow up till 
you hear the rest of it," cut in Tom. "This 
trouble isn't something that just happened. 
It — it was a plant." 
"What!" 

"This air receiver was plugged, pur- 
posely plugged by somebody. If you have 
any enemy in this business I reckon he's 
pretty clever, an' pretty near had you 
stopped. How's your own crew — all trust- 
worthy?" 

i "A plant! Enemy! Sufferin' catfish! 
Sure I got a rival — enemy. Black, o' the 
Maisie Dean, would give one of his ears 
to keep me away from Rugged Island an' 
them log booms. I'm beginnin' to see a 
bit o' light, son. But, it don't work. By 
gawsh! I'll lick 'em yet, if you say this 
Diesel's O- K. I got a faster, stronger 



boat. I " Jud Ryan broke off. He 

stroked his stubbled face and for a long 
moment was wrapped in deep thought. 
Suddenly he jerked his head forward again. 

"No — I can't say that any member o' 
my crew is crooked," he breathed. "This'll 
be an outside job, Tom. There's my sec- 
ond engineer — a bruiser I took a chance 
on, but he seems trustworthy enough. Say 
— how'd you like to sign on for a trip or 
two — a extra hand?" 

TOM'S lips tightened. It wasn't quite 
in his line, but he remembered he 
hadn't eaten since he helped unload a 
salmon catch in the early hours of dawn. 
He had hoped to catch the chief of the 
Marcus outfit and get back on a lathe. 
But — somehow he had taken a liking to 
Jud Ryan, whom he scarcely remembered 
as an old family friend. 

"Right, Skipper. I'm with you," he 

jerked. "I— uh " 

Tom reeled. The skipper crashed down 
and caught him as he was pitching toward 
the heated engine parts. 

"Why, blast me for a danged oP fool, 
I might've knowed you ain't been eatin 

enough. Hey, Wong " Jud bellowed 

up. The cook pattered aft and dropped 
to his knees. 

"Haul away on this feller, an' help get 
him stowed plumb full o' grub. No canned 
muck, either. Fry him a big juicy steak, 
savvy?" 

"Yeh — savvy, al'lite. Plenty empty belly, 
huh. I fix, al' time damn quick." 

It was when he came topside, smeared 
with grease, that Jud Ryan caught the 
mocking blast of the Maisie Dean's whistle. 

"Hounds of hell!" he bellowed. "Slip- 
pin' off. Think I'm busted." 

He shook his big fist into the night, then 
hurled himself to the wharf. He knew 
where to find his crew. In less than half 
an hour the Galardi would be out to sea, 
and then — if Cap'n Black and the crew 
of the Maisie Dean were looking for trou- 
ble — by gor-r! 

Jud Ryan balled his fists as he lumbered 



J28 



SHORT STORIES 



up to a dark alley off the wharfside. He 
had been "Hell-Fire" Ryan on the Missis- 
sippi. That same old fighting fire was 
being rekindled. Somebody had blocked 
up the air intake on the Galardi's Diesel 
engine. There was crooked work afoot — 
and it didn't pay to fourflush on the skip- 
per of the Galardi. 

"Skipp' plenty peeve al' time, unh? 
Plitty soon some'd'y catch plenty hell!" 
intoned Chon Wong, as he slid a prime 
steak to a plate before Tom Saxon's eager 
eyes. 

"Yeh, you're right, Wong. The skip's 
a real man, too. I'm glad I'm in with 
him, instead of against him." 

"Plenty in with skipp. Smack him down 
al' time. He — he — how come you plenty 
in after you knock 'im offside?" 

"My dad and ma and Skipper Ryan were 
old friends," Tom said, and his voice was 
full of meaning. "You savvy just why the 
skip and me hitched up after I — after he 
fell off the wharf. I'm for him, Wong. 
I know him, an' his record. He's a ring- 
tailed snorter — a big chested old Missis- 
sippi man. There'll be doin's before we 
get our tow to Everett. Keep your eyes 
peeled, Wong — an' your ears open." 

Wong regarded this new, extra hand 
through expressionless, oblique eyes. But, 
he was well satisfied, in his sage, silent 
way, that Jud Ryan had an ally in whom 
he could put lots of trust. 

A FEW moments later the sound of 
coarse voices in argument and the 
clump of sea boots on the wharf decking 
brought Tom Saxon to his feet. Skipper 
Ryan was returning with his crew. 

Jud wasted no time in introductions. 
Men were posted to the watch, and the 
Diesel started. The skipper then whistled 
to the wharf master for release. He stood 
by the port rail, and his orders to engine 
room and wheel man were clipped very 
short. 

"Full astern. Hard-a-sta'bud. Stop 
'er!" Then: "Half ahead— hard-a-port. 
Cast off on the head. Stop 'er." 



The Galardi was answering the wheel 
like a charm. Ryan brought her stern 
about and" slacked off. The man at the 
bitt ashore got his signal and cast off the 
stern line. Then Ryan chirped three short 
blasts on his whistle, and the stout little 
sea-going tug leaped forward, her nose 
smacking the phosphorescent waves full on. 

"Full ahead, an' take her away," bel- 
lowed the skipper. He then took position 
alongside the man at the wheel. There 
were tricky narrows and channels to navi- 
gate. But he spotted Tom Saxon, and 
called him up under a deck light. 

"I want you to keep an eye an' an ear 
on that engine, Tom," he breathed. "Re- 
port anything you think might be wrong. 
By gor-r! I'm goin' to overhaul Black 
an' his Maisie Dean. No man'U steal my 
thunder an' get away with it. I heard 
somethin' ashore, son. I got on the inside 
o' Black's designs on me. I'll make this 
tow on scheduled time, or — well, by Jupi- 
ter, nobody else will!" 

Tom Saxon nodded and sheered off. He 
strolled nonchalantly down to the engine 
hatch, and nodded to the chief and second, 
who were both on shift, perhaps amazed 
that the Diesel was pulling at full power. 

"Who found the Diesel trouble?" jerked 
the chief as he spotted Tom. 

"Oh — how do? It was the skipper an' 
me, Chief. Receiver was plugged with 
some old gasket metal. Nothin' much. 
She pullin' okay now?" 

"Yeh — nearly perfect, stranger. Thanks 
for the good work." But Tom noticed 
that the second was eyeing him strangely. 
He had made no offer of greeting. His 
thin lips were drawn to a hard fine line. 

"That cheap grease monkey an' me are 
not goin' to hit it," the young Yank told 
himself. "When a man packs a fish stare 
like that, he's got somethin' fishy on his 
mind." 

Tom took a seat on a coil of towing 
hawser and as the Galardi throbbed on, he 
seemed to be counting her pulse beats — 
tuning his mind in with the rhythmic beat 
of the Diesel. 



EXTRA 

SEYMOUR INLET was alive with bob- 
bing lights, as the Gdardi threaded her 
way in and out of anchored log booms. 
Jud Ryan's teeth ground steadily on a quid 
of tobacco as he stood on the for'ard head, 
piloting his fast tugboat to her appointed 
place of anchorage. 

The mudhook had scarcely taken hold 
before a gas boat putt-putted up to the 
side of the Gdardi, and Ryan stepped aft 
to greet the big boss of the lumbering, 
transportation interests. 

"Thought you weren't going to make it, 
Ryan," snapped the newcomer. "I allowed 
a tide to go by; wanted to give you all 
the chance possible. But it costs money 
to hold these booms here. Sure your 
boat's in shape for the tow? Black told 
me you were having Diesel trouble." 

"Black's face is always open, Jenson," 
Ryan snarled. "One o' these times, I'll 
have to find something to stuff in it. Sure 
my boat's okay. I'll take two million feet 
o' logs, an' I'll be in Everett a half day 
before Black or any other skipper in the 
Inlet" 

"Well, that's just fine, Jud. Everett 
Mills are raising Cain at the delay. If 
you can take two million feet and make 
that record run, I'll arrange for a bonus — 
from this end. Black has signed for a mil- 
lion and a half." 

"Humph!" Ryan spat testily into the 
night. His was no idle boast, so long as 
his engine played up. He was the best 
navigator on the log run, and knew how 
to humor those tides which often got nasty 
off Grief Point, and in other waters. 

"Well, better let's get signed up," sug- 
gested Jenson. "Then bring the boys up 
for a drink, and some poker. I'd like 
fine to have 'em. There's a U. S. govern- 
ment fishing boat anchored off the booms. 
Swell bunch of boys." 

"Right, Jenson. We'll be over. I'll post 
an anchor watch an' bring the lads over 
in the dinghy." 

i Tom Saxon had heard most of the con- 
versation. It had thrilled him to hear all 
this big talk about big logging operations. 



HAND *29 

Though a deep water man himself, he' 
sensed a certain tingle of anticipation at the' 
thought of getting a two million feet boom 1 
down through those narrow, treacherous 1 
channels. 

"I'll take your anchor watch, Skipper," 
he suggested to Ryan, but the skipper 
waved him to one side. 

"No. I want you to set in an' meet' 
the boys at Jenson's place," he grunted.' 
"Davey'll take the watch. He usually does.' 
Great boy. Doesn't play cards. But there's 
another reason why he likes to stick aboard. 1 
He's a foolish drinker. It gets him. Now 
he's tryin' to lay off, so I do all I can to 
help him. Get a wash, Tom, an' we'll shove 
off. This'll be your last free night for a few. 
There's sign of a sou'easter comin' up; 
an' if she does, we'll have our hands full. 
She's a snorter. Tcha — so Black figures 
to skin out with a million and a half, and 
beat me into Everett, huh!" 

Ryan moved over to the deckhand, 
Davey, and held a few seconds' whispered 
conversation with him. Then he turned, 
and piped the rest of the crew to the 
dinghy. It paid to play in with Jenson, 
and Jenson was touchy. To refuse one 
of his invitations was a fatal move against 
one's business. 

THE night dragged on. Ashore, at 
Jenson's warehouse, stacked with sup- 
plies for the logging camps inland, a large 
room served as the recreation room. It 
was here that Tom Saxon watched his 
skipper play draw poker. There were two 
schools in the play. Ryan played with 
his mate, the first engineer, and a couple 
of petty officers from aboard the fisheries 
boat. At another table sat Captain Black, 
his mate, the second engineer of the 
Gdardi, the senior officer of the U. S. cut- 
ter, and Jenson. 

Saxon was deeply interested in the game 
before him. He smoked on in silence, 
watching the poker faces in that grim circle 
around the table. The pot was increasing, 
gradually, slowly, to one of worthwhile 
proportions. All players were still in. Jud 



SHORT STORIES 



Ryan had drawn two cards to three dueces, 
but Tom had failed to see what the skipper 
drew. Ryan played a serious, close-fisted 
game; and his weather-beaten face never 
changed expression. He sat stolidly chew- 
ing his black plug, waiting for the rest to 
make their plays. 

One of the U. S. P. O.'s tossed in his 
cards face down, and with a grin lit a 
cigarette. The Galardi's mate raised a bet 
to his skipper. Through the merest slits 
in his cards, Ryan squinted in. There was 
a long moment of tense silence; then — 

"Raise you five!" Jud tossed in his 
chips and settled back in his hunch. The 
remaining P. O. screwed up his broWsi shot 
a glance at the grizzled face of the tugboat 
skipper; then slowly doubled his bet. 

Jud Ryan's big chest heaved. He shot 
a glance down at his watch. 

"H'mm — reckon this'U have to be my 
last hand, gents, win or lose. I've got 
to inspect my booms yet, an' we shove off 
to catch the dawn tide. I'll — raise that lit- 
tle double fifteen bucks." 

The Galardi mate tossed in his hand. 
The first engineer stayed, as did the P. O. 
But the latter quickly changed his mind 
and made another raise. Ryan's engineer 
dropped out. 

Now for the first time since the game 
began, Tom Saxon saw a change of ex- 
pression in the skipper's face — a not un- 
kindly smile played with the corners of his 
mouth. His hand closed over a stack of 
chips, then came away. Jud Ryan knew 
that the young fellow opposite was playing 
him for a bluff. He knew he had the 
P. O. beaten. Ryan knew something else. 
He knew that the young naval man was 
betting perhaps the last cent he had in the 
world. There was likely a young wife 
back home. 

Saxon was quick to spot Ryan's play. 
He had the P. O. beaten a mile. With 
a grunt, he tossed in his cards, face down. 

"H'mmm, an' so it goes," he breathed 
as he glimpsed the three kings which the 
P. O. carelessly discarded. "Some must 
win, an' some must lose." He turned to 



Saxon, and winked. Tom realized now, 
more than ever, that he was tied up with 
a real big square-shooter. There was no 
need for him to ask Ryan why he had 
tossed good fours into the discard. 

"I'd like you to come along while I in- 
spect the booms, Tom," Ryan grunted. He 




had refused to drink with the P. O. ; al- 
though he shook hands and wished the 
youngster plenty luck. 

TOM SAXON'S eyes had wandered 
off toward the other tables. They 
fastened their gaze on the table at which 
Black and the second engineer of the 
Galardi had played. The table was de- 
serted. Jenson, the big boss, was coming 
across the room. 

"Black's determined to beat you into Ev- 
erett, Ryan," he grinned. "Not waiting for 
the tide. Going to take a chance on round- 
in' Grief Point. That must have been 
some game you were in!" 

Jud Ryan bit back a desire to thunder 
out his feelings. Black had slipped away 
on him. By the pink-heeled prophet, this 
didn't look so good! Tom Saxon hurried 
to his skipper, and drew him to one side. 

"If it's all the same to you, Skipper," 
he breathed, "I'll beat it back to the boat. 
Mebbe the mate'll go over the booms with 
you. Black's outfit have all shoved off. 
I'm a little bit afraid that we're goin' to find 
ourselves a — man — short." Tom was run- 
ning to the door. And then Jud Ryan 



EXTRA HAND 



exploded. Galling to his mate, he lurched^ 
outdoors, and whistled up a dinghy. 

TOM was three hundred yards from 
the Galardi when he saw a stealthy, 
dark form drop from the stern rail into 
a waiting boat. At once he was inclined 
to order the Siwash paddling him across 
to give chase, but he quickly changed his 
mind. A seething anger surged through 
his frame. He called to the Indian to in- 
crease his stroke. 

"Plenty fast, tillicum," he bellowed. The 
canoe cut water like an arrow. 

Aboard, the young extra hand rushed 
to the galley, but Wong, the cook, was 
absent — likely playing fan tan ashore with 
a bunch of the Orientals from the salmon 
cannery. 

Tom dashed aft, then checked up short. 
Lying propped against a hawser coil was 
the anchor watch — dead to the world. 

"Doped, I'll bet a million," Tom gasped. 
"Rotten dirty work." Now he dropped 
to the engine room, and prepared to start 
the Diesel. He got no response at all — 
not even a cough. He tried again and 
again, but with no better result. Then to 
his trained mind came the solution. 

"Of course, blast them," he snarled, "the 
valves have gone. They've stolen the guts 
right out of her." He leaped to make his 
inspection and found that he was right. 
The valves had been stolen — likely dropped 
overboard. 

"That lousy little fish-eyed second engi- 
neer," he thundered, coming slowly top- 
side. "What a mess! Enough to turn 
Jud's brain. And he swore to reach Ever- 
ett ahead of Black, with a half a million feet 
of logs extra. Gosh, what a lousy deal !" 

Just then, from down the Inlet, came 
the mocking toot of the Maisie Dean's 
whistle, in a devil's tattoo. Tom Saxon 
whirled and shook his fist at those gliding 
lights. Black's tow of logs was stealing 
well out of the inlet. 

L Tom dropped to the canoe, and snapped 
a crisp order at the Siwash. Five minutes 



later he was aboard a section of Jud Ryan's 
long log boom. 

"Trouble, Skipper," he jerked. 

"You mean more trouble, Tom. What 
now?" 

"The Diesel. She's jinxed again. Some- 
body lifted the valves out of the auxiliary 
air compressor. She's " 

"My Gawd!" The exclamation came in 
a groan from Ryan. "An' Black's away. 
There's his lights. Swine! We're cooked, 
Tom. Reckon I'll have to sign off with 
Jenson, an' take my loss an' like it. You 
say somebody stole those valves. Any 
idea who?" 

^Yeh, but that won't replace the valves, 
Skip. Don't bother signing off. There's 
a chance yet. How's the boom? Can 
she stand lots of sea and weather?" 

"W-why, uh — I reckon so," stammered 
the skipper. "But what's on your mind? 
We're sunk, Tom. Jenson won't stand for 
any delay, an' you can't blame him. I'll 
send down to Vancouver for a set of new 
valves — then by the seven eyed Buddah, 
I'll overhaul Black some place an' put him 
to bed for the rest o' the season!" 

But Tom Saxon had a better idea. There 
was a glitter in the extra hand's eye. 

"Tighten up all boom section connec- 
tions, and hire a couple of peavey men to 
ride the logs, Skipper," he jerked. "Give 
me an hour an' I'll have the Diesel run- 
ning. Say nothing to Jenson. Will you 
play in with me?" 

There was no immediate reply, but at a 
nudge from the Gcdardi's mate, Fred 
Peterson, the skipper grunted. 

"Right! Go to it. If you can come 
through I'll give you a half share in the 
Galardi, by gor-r!" The skipper gave an 
order to the mate. Saxon leaped aboard 
the waiting canoe. 

Aboard the Galardi he squatted on the 
floor plates, and with hammer and cold 
chisel began to shape new valves. 

"D Y THE flood tide of dawn, the Galardi 
was standing off her boom, Jud Ryan 
throwing his voice like a fog horn at the 



SHORT STORIES 



132 

men responsible for the towlines. Tom 
Saxon, now acting second engineer was 
on duty below. 

"Think she'll stand the drag of that two 
million tow, Tom?" asked the first engi- 
neer. 

"Depends on weather an' tides. A lot 
depends on a lot of things when you hit 
the open sea." 

"What! You mean the skipper's going 
to hit into deep water, with an extra mil- 
lion of logs in tow?" 

"Yes — we're going to short cut it, Chief. 
We tie up for nothing. Ryan's been 
double-crossed too badly. He'd rip 
through the tide gates of hell, an' Fm with 
him. What about you?" 

"I? Well, as a matter of fact I didn't 
bargain for any fool moves like this. Any- 
how, I don't claim to let no driftin' extra 
hand tell me anythin'. I'm shovin' off 
to the Inlet. I'll catch a Rupert boat goin' 
north — a passenger. Tell Ryan I wish 
him luck." 

As he neared the foot of the ladder, Tom 
Saxon loomed large and formidable before 
him, square jaw sticking well forward 
menacingly. 

"I'd change my mind if I were you, 
Mister Chief Engineer," Tom drawled. 
"Haven't you got any more red liver than 
your second, who bunged up the Diesel, 
then made his getaway?" 

"Pipe down, and shove out of the way, 
Saxon. I'm not shippin' with a damn fool 
March hare outfit like this. Gangway!" 
He made the mistake of grabbing Tom's 
shoulder. 

Two lightninglike bolts shot out; two 
iron-balled fists took him on both sides of 
the lower jaw. He staggered back, rock- 
ing against the Diesel exhaust manifold. 
His vision cleared, and Tom saw his hand 
steal for'ard to a heavy Stillson wrench. 
With a cry of disgust, the extra hand 
leaped in and crashed over a savage hook. 

The chief engineer sagged to the floor 
plating, and Tom resumed his task of 
blocking new valves out. 



"What a lousy crew Ryan got stung 
with," he ruminated. "By George! Per- 
haps it would have been better to let him 
go, at that. Mebbe I should heave him 
overside before he loses his nerve when 
we get into a blow. Huh, I'll hogtie him 
to the mudhook, first. I'll see he gets a 
full taste of salt water spume — deep water 
spume, by gad!" 

Jud Ryan and his mate stepped aboard, 
soaked to the skin, tired, but full of fight. 
It was just as Ryan got both feet aboard 
that the Galardi's Diesel broke into song. 
Tom Saxon had got his improvised valves 
cut to a nicety. 

"Listen, Fred," the skipper chuckled. 
"By gor'r! Listen to that extry hand 
makin' her like it. Ye-ah! Man dear, 
we're shovin' off." He turned, and thun- 
dered a command at the deck hand, now 
revived. 

"Stan' by to stow that mudhook, you. 
Take the wheel, Fred. We make fast the 
tow an' get goin'." 

Jud strode to the engine room hatch. 
His eyes popped as he glimpsed the chief 
engineer sitting groggily trying to get to 
his feet. 

"What's gone on here, Tom?" he jerked. 

"One of your little pack rats was tryin' 
to abandon ship on you, Skip. I put him 
to sleep till you came. If you don't want 
him, I'll heave him overboard. How about 
it?" 

"First the second — then you," snarled 
the skipper. "Get for'ard an' slop your 
head in a bucket o' bilge. Consider your- 
self under open arrest. When this trip's 
done I'll hand ye over, by gor-r! Now, 
Tom, take over the anchor winch. We're 
goin' down the roads, son — hell bent for 
Everett. Got lots of power?" 

"Aye aye, Skipper, lots. I'll put her at 
it to the limit. Shoot me some hot coffee 
down here in about an hour, then hang 
on to your braces, we're goin' places." 

FOR the next two days, the Galardi 
held up her end like the true brig she 
was, taking a sou'easter and eating it, and 

JO 



EXTRA HAND 



133 



Still retaining her hang on the long, slug- 
gish boom. 

On the eve of the third night, Tom 
Saxon was standing at the for'ard head 
together with the skipper and mate. They 
had bucked a fast tide in the flood through 
the strait. Of Black's Maisie Dean there 
was no sign. 

"He's shown more guts than I gave 
him credit for," growled Jud Ryan. "In 
spite o' our efforts, he'll take his boom 
through ahead, unless a miracle happens. 
He- — " 

"Look, Skip," cut in Saxon. "Light 
ahead. That's his after boom lantern there 
off the starb'd head. He's less than three 
miles before us." The three men craned 
forward. There was no mistaking the rid- 
ing light of the after boom section ahead. 
It hung low above the water. The Maisie 
Dean was making slow progress now. 

"By gor-rl" grunted through Ryan's 
lips. "We're overhaulin' the crittur. If 
we had just twenty-four hours of fair 
weather, we'd roll him on his beam end 
with our wash." 

But it was the mate who first called 
attention to a sudden change in the slap 
of the night wind. 

"What d'you make of the blow, Skip- 
per?" he jerked. "Am I just imaginin' 
things, or is that a westerly smackin' the 
back o' my neck?" 

If there was one wind that tug men 
dreaded more than another coming through 
the strait it was a westerly. It either 
meant a tie up in some sheltered cove back 
of Texada Island, or a foolhardy attempt 
at a run before the wind, taking a chance 
on the breaking of the boom. Men who 
had attempted to run before had paid heav- 
ily for it, spending hours with peavey and 
pole, rescuing loose logs in the dark — mak- 
ing up broken booms with a heavy sea 
threatening death at every moment. 

"You're right, Fred," Ryan jerked. 
"She's veerin' sharp to the west. Sufferin' 
seacats! First we take it in the head, an' 
now we got the devil off our stern. Tcha! 
An' I promised Jenson delivery of this 



tow by Friday, the seventh. Reckon we're 
jinxed. There's nothin' for it but to put 
in at the back o' Texada till she blows 
herself out." 

"H'mmm, too bad, Skipper, but you're 
right," acquiesced the mate. "Reckon this 
cooks our goose with Jenson, huh? We 
might as well call it a season. Well, there's 
the fishin' off the west coast o' the main 
island. I'm with ye, if ye want to take a 
fling at that." 

Fishing — off the west coast. Fishing. 
Wallowing in the slime of a salmon catch. 
Jud Ryan jerked on his tobacco plug and 
spat contemptuously. He turned and 
snarled an order to the man at the wheel. 
Tom Saxon had been waiting for this. His 
blood was up close to boiling point. He 
knew Ryan was putting in to shelter purely 
in the interests of his crew ; as well, he had 
two million feet of valuable timber at his 
back. His responsibilities were heavy. But 
Saxon knew that the real old fighting Ryan 
rebelled. 

"You're not goin' to hide out, Skipper ?"- 
he snapped. "Hell, after all the trouble 
we've had, you're not goin' to hide out like 
a durned fair weather sailor! There's 
deep water in the open strait. Deep wa- 
ter'll take you any place, if you've got the 
guts to stay with her. You've got a good 
boat, an' log timber'll ride any place there's 
water. Of course, if you fair weather sail- 
ors are afraid of a stern wind an' deep 
water, then it's no use my talkin'. If you 
pull in off Texada Island, you can put me 
ashore. I'm a deep water man. I'm "> 

"You danged young swab," bellowed 
Ryan. "Am I to take orders an' advice 
from a blasted extra hand! Deep water 
man — why you ain't dry behind the — the 

" Ryan broke off sharp. Tom had 

stung him to the quick, but he bit back 
his retort now, knowing that the youngster 
was a deep water man, and a big chested 
young hellion who was afraid of nothing. 
Something in Ryan seemed to snap. Here 
was a boy, son of an old Mississippi River 
man, hurling a challenge into the teeth 
of Hell-Fire Ryan. 



*34 



SHORT STORIES 



"Sta-b'd y'r hel-m," he roared at the 
wheel house. 

"What the devil, Skip?" jerked the mate. 
"You ain't goin' to run her out. Man — 
you plumb crazy? You ain't listenin' to 
this — this damn extry hand?" 

But Captain Ryan merely grunted. 

THE Galardi swung into the flow again, 
and a screaming wind smacked her, 
stern on. In back of Texada Island, Cap- 
tain Black tied up to sit out the blow. 

Tom Saxon drew the skipper to one 
side. 

"I'm goin' aboard the boom, Skipper," 
he said. "Have the mate take me -along- 
side. I want plenty cable, an' chain. By 
the great eyelids of Buddah, I'm goin' to 
give those two beachcombers aboard those 
logs somethin' to do. Skip, we've got to 




take this tow in on time. I — didn't mean 
any insult when I rode you about the deep 
water. I just wanted to get you steamed 
up. Hang on here, and hold her full ahead 
before it. I'll see those boom sections hold 



Anything else Tom Saxon might have 
said was lost in the whine of the wind. 

Tom Saxon rode the after boom section 
like some marooned sailor aboard a raft. 
His clothing was almost ripped from his 
spume-blistered body. One of his helpers 
was down, groveling full length on the logs. 
For seven hours at a stretch the three of 
the boom crew had fought an almost losing 
battle with terrible sea and wind. Twice 
the after section had threatened to hurl its 
tonnage high up on the section ahead. 
Times without number Tom had gathered 



his almost spent men and rushed for'ard 
to whip a length of cable about a heavy 
locking timber, and so retain another sec- 
tion. 

The wind seemed to increase in force, 
and the sea thundered in, tossing the booms 
like matchwood with angry sideswipes. 

But through his misery, Saxon forced 
a grin. The Galardi was holding her head 
up — holding it up like a deep water boat. 
Furthermore, she was making speed, and 
conserving her actual engine power. It 
took two men to hold her wheel over, but 
they were big-chested men — whose lips 
were blistered with the salt spume riding 
over them off the starbo'd head. 

A sudden grinding crash brought Saxon 
about with a start. He gasped, struggling 
against the fury of the wind for breath, 
as he saw the after boom section stand 
almost on her head. In a flash he struck 
down at the man outstretched on the logs 
at his feet.' 

"Quick, you," he bellowed. "Run for 
it." He stooped, and half dragged, half 
booted the man for'ard. 

They had scarcely cleared before the tre- 
mendous tonnage of battered logs thun- 
dered in with a quaking crash, piling up 
like a river jam, threatening the entire 
boom. 

Tom ran forward, and with the help 
of the other member of the boom crew 
rushed aft with locking chains and cable. 

"We've got to tie her, get me?" he thun- 
dered. "This boom tow's goin' through. 
Stan' by to pass me that chain." 

HE HURLED himself at the piled up 
mass of logs, fighting as he had never 
fought before. He was dragging heavy 
cable with him, cable which almost tore his 
arms from their shoulder sockets. 

Cut, bleeding, blistered, and aching in 
every limb, he fought those logs for up- 
wards of two hours. His chest seemed 
utterly stove in, and save for a fragment 
of his trousers which clung soddenly to his 
waist, he was naked. 

With peavey, he rolled troublesome logs 



EXTRA HAND 



into place, helped by the one man able 
to stand on his legs. Tom made his chain 
and cable locks; not the best of ties, but 
good enough to tide them by. 

But it seemed that fate was not 
done with its alliance with the devil. A 
sudden upheaval of the entire two after 
sections hurled Tom through space. He 
crashed to the timber and lay still, spread- 
eagled on his face. His right arm was 
strangely twisted, two sharp points of bone 
threatening to puncture the flesh above the 
elbow. 

But the dawn was riding through. The 
wind was now moaning a half sob, in place 
of her scream. The waves still rode high, 
slopping over Saxon's recumbent frame. 
The heavy buffeting had ceased, however. 
Aboard the Galardi, Jud Ryan was hum- 
ming a tune, as he stamped back and forth 
— for'ard and aft. 

"Extry hand," he breathed. "I wonder 
why the devil I ever called him that ! He'll 
be half owner in this outfit. He is, in fact, 
right now. H'mmm — extry hand." 

BY MIDNIGHT of the seventh, the 
Galardi was tied in off Everett. Jud 
Ryan smoked a huge cigar in the office of 
the big boss of the Everett Mills, Limited. 

"Make the check out to Ryan an' Saxon, 
Limited," he grunted. "An' that bonus 
check you spoke of can be in-incorporated." 

"O. K., Cap'n," returned the accountant, 
"you've taken on a partner, eh? Who — 



where'd you bump into him? Must be 
good, eh?" 

"Good! I'll say. He's the first man 
to bring a two million tow into this water 
in many a year ; an' he brought her through 
the straits, runnin' before a westerly — with 
his arm broke. An' old Mississippi lad, 
but a blown-in-the-glass deep water man. 
Do I — we get another two million feet 
right sharp?" 

"You can get all the tows you want, 
Skipper," was the quick reply. "Any out- 
fit that can pull a two million boom outfit 
through ahead of a westerly, as you did — 
with the boom standing on her ear, well 
— sft£&e. And when that young partner 
of yours is out of hospital, fetch him along^ 
The boys at the mill want to look him 
over." 

Jud Ryan's eyes were misted. He pock- 
eted his check, and moved to the door. 

"By gor-r !" he grunted. "An' to think 
I once let him sock me off'n the Vancouver 
wharf. Tcha!" Jud spat testily into the 
night, then strode off to find a taxi which 
would whisk him to the hospital. He 
wanted Tom to see their first check — the 
first of many to come. 

"An' when you finally slop along wit' 
that mere million an' a half feet o' hem- 
lock, mister Cap'n Black," Ryan breathed. 
"I'm goin' to take just two pokes at that 
ugly mug o' yours — one each for Ryan an' 
Saxon. You won't need any more, by 
Gor-r!" 




10 



WAR OF THE 
BRANDING IRON 

Quick trigger fingers in a 
complete novel in our 
next issue by 

Charles W. Tyler 



The First Glow of Number Twelve's Headlight Could Be Seen, 
and Still the Dispatchers Hadn't Changed the Meet 




/ 



Badland Meet 



By DTJANE HOPKINS 

Author of "Target Yard," "Flying Coupling," etc. 



WE'LL just call him John Doe. 
He happens to be the presi- 
dent of one of the great Wes- 
tern railroad systems, so it is 
perhaps best that his real 
name not be mentioned here. In fact, he 



himself needn't have been mentioned here, 
except that this is his favorite story. He 
loves to tell it. He will tell it to anyone 
who drops into his office and asks to hear 
it. And he will tell it in words about like 
these : 



136 



10 



BADLAND MEET 



*37 



But, my dear sir, I am a very busy man ! 
I just can't spare the time, you know. Still 
— er, urn — well, maybe I have a free min- 
ute or two, if you really want to hear the 
story. 

But here, let me draw up a chair for you. 
Sit down, my friend. There, that's better. 
Have a cigar? They're rather strong. 
And a light? Not at all, don't mention it. 

Now you take railroading. A dull and 
uninteresting business, you may think, all 
bound up with strict rules and rigid regula- 
tions. Ah, yes. But I want to tell you, 
some very odd and unusual things have 
been known to happen in the railroad game. 
The operation of trains isn't always such a 
dull routine as it appears to the outsider. 
Any veteran of the steel trails can spin you 
yarns that sound almost unbelievable, and 
yet are strictly the truth — actual, personal 
experiences. 

This is just such a tale that I'm going to 
tell you. This is the true story of the 
strangest happening I have ever witnessed 
in a long lifetime of railroad service. It is 
something I'll never forget to my dying 
day, and if you find any part of it hard to 
believe, remember that I saw the whole 
thing with my own eyes and that I am tell- 
ing you nothing but the gospel truth. These 
are real facts, without any coloring or ex- 
aggeration. Now if you're settled and 
comfortable, we'll get started. 

TO BEGIN with, we must go back a 
good many years to a place known as 
Wildhorse. At that time Wildhorse was 
just a prairie flagstop out on our Plains 
Division, a jerkwater cow country town. 
And to tell the truth, Wildhorse remains to 
this day the same thing, a jerkwater cow 
country town. You haven't, by any chance, 
ever been there? No, I thought not. Few 
visitors ever have business in Wildhorse, 
and most of our trains never stop there. 
! However, if you should ever have occa- 
sion to journey to that part of the country, 
I'd be very pleased to have you use our 
railroad to take you. The fare is $32.14, 
one way, Chicago to Wildhorse, Pullman 
10 



berth extra. Never overlook a chance to 
advertise, is my motto. That's probably the 
only reason I'm president of this company. 
I know a hundred men down in the ranks 
who have more brains and more education 
than I have, but they don't push. They 
don't push either the road or themselves. 

But I'm wandering. Let's get back to 
Wildhorse in the old days. I was just a 
youngster then, starting right at the bottom 
on my first railroad job. Officially, I was 
the assistant station agent at Wildhorse; 
but actually, I was only a sort of errand 
boy, janitor, and general baggage smasher 
down at the depot. Anything in the line of 
odd^bs fell to me, because there were 
only two other railroad employees on duty 
at Wildhorse. One was the station agent, 
who was my daytime working companion 
and superior. The other was Dave Du- 
Shane, the night telegrapher. 

I want to say a word here about Dave 
DuShane, because this is really his story. 
He is the chief character in it, and I might 
say an extraordinary character. Physi- 
cally, he was a strapping big fellow, tall 
and dark and powerful, with flashing black 
eyes and a great shock of coal-black hair. 
He was rather handsome, too, in a bold 
hard way. And when it came to telegraph- 
ing, he was as handy an operator as ever 
worked in Morse code. 

NEVERTHELESS, Dave DuShane 
was no good. Yes, I mean no good. 
He was a wild one, a bad one, even in an 
era when all railroaders were pretty much 
a gang of toughs. It may seem strange to 
you today that railroad men were once 
considered the scum of the earth, but in 
the early days they were just about that. 
In general, they were a roughneck, profli- 
gate bunch. 

Dave DuShane was one of the worst of 
the old hellion crowd. He caroused 
around and got in every low brawl that 
started in Wildhorse. He guzzled booze 
continuously, off duty and on. More than 
once he stole the ticket money from the 
depot office to gamble with. And when it 



138 



SHORT STORIES 



came to plain and fancy swearing, he could 
curse more devilishly than any section boss 
who ever hurled an oath at a Mex track 
laborer. Dave DuShane was utterly god- 
less — I can't word that too strongly — an 
utterly godless man. 

Now I am sorry to have to say these 
things about Dave, because he was my 
friend. Bad as he was, I am not ashamed 
to call him my friend. He always liked 
me, for some unaccountable reason. He 
was a bully, too, a fist-fighting, hard- 
mouthed bully. Yet he never bullied me, 
and the day that the Scorpion Butte outfit 
captured me, it was Dave DuShane who 
really saved my life. 

Understand, the boys from up on the 
Scorpion Butte range weren't deliberate 
killers, any of them. They weren't rustlers 
or outlaws. But they were as reckless a 




mob of cow waddies as ever handled a 
cattle drive. They were in Wildhorse ship- 
ping spring beef that day, and their ranch 
foreman made the mistake of paying them 
a month's wages before they started back 
home from town. Consequently, by sun- 
set they were drunk to a man, raising 
merry hell down at the stock loading pens, 
and looking for some real fun. They got it 
when I walked down the track to the pens, 
after work, to see if their cattle cars were 
properly loaded for the night freight east. 

THE first thing I knew, somebody had 
a lariat on me. The loop whistled 
through the air, dropped over my shoul- 



ders, tightened around my chest and arms, 
and jerked me sprawling on the ground. 
The next thing I knew, I was being 
dragged helplessly in circles behind a gal- 
loping horse, with the audience of punchers 
all whooping in delight. Gentle hazing, 
they'd have called it. But it was far from 
being gentle. The boys were too drunk 
to realize they were killing me, but that 
was just what they were doing. There 
were jagged boulders lying all about, and 
being dragged on my neck lickety-split 
through those rocks was deadly play. I'd 
certainly have had my skull split open if 
Dave DuShane hadn't suddenly appeared 
on the scene. 

The last I'd seen of Dave, he was swig- 
ging whisky in one of the saloons up town. 
I never expected him to bob up at the ship- 
ping pens. But bob up he did, out of no- 
where, and just in the nick of time. I was 
battered almost unconscious when I heard 
Dave's yelling curse rise above the laughter 
and shouts of the others. A moment later 
he came bursting through the knot of on- 
lookers like a madman. 

Nor did he pause an instant in the res- 
cue. As the circling horse loped past, Dave 
dashed out after it and grabbed the rope 
that was dragging me. The lariat pulled 
him down sliding, but he hung on grimly 
and with his pocket knife slashed the rope 
in two. That freed us both, and we rolled 
to a stop together in a cloud of dust. Then 
Dave jumped up, jerked me to my feet 
also, shoved me behind him, and turned to 
face the cowhands. 

For a minute there was only silence. My 
tormentors were too surprised at the sud- 
den rescue to move or speak, and Dave just 
stood there calmly rolling up his shirt 
sleeves for combat, with his thick black 
hair hanging in his eyes and an ugly scowl 
on his face. Then the astonishment passed, 
and the entire group started for him in a 
rush. There must have been fifteen of 
them, but they could have been fifty for all 
Dave cared. A good gang fight was right 
up his alley, and he met the onslaught with 
flying fists and bellowed oaths. The first 



BADLAND MEET 



*39 



thfee men to reach him went down in their 
tracks almost simultaneously, 
j "Pick on a skinny little lad, will you?" 
bawled Dave, his hefty arms pumping like 
pistons. "Now tackle somebody your own 
size, you blankety-blank thus-and-such's." 
Crack, slap, thud ! "I do hate to hit a man 
when he's drunk, but I'm just as drunk as 
any of you, so — " Bam! Another cow- 
boy bit the dust. 

AT THAT, they might have over- 
whelmed him by weight of numbers, 
but Wildhorse suddenly woke up to what 
was going on. Entertainment! In a jiffy 
every saloon on the main street emptied 
and the occupants raced for the stock track. 
Nor did they come just as spectators. Their 
arrival started a grand free-for-all, with a 
hundred men slugging whoever happened 
to be within reach. The battle royal kept 
tip joyously until all the combatants were 
either knocked out or winded and worn 
out. Then the whole thing was over as 
quickly as it had started. Everybody, in- 
cluding Dave, went back up town, had a 
few rounds of drinks together, and prompt- 
ly forgot the pleasant little incident. 

But I didn't forget it. I never forgot it. 
I always remembered that I owed my life 
to Dave DuShane, and that oddly enough 
he seemed to like me. After that experi- 
ence, Dave stood as pretty much the hero 
in my eyes. 

Still, he was no sort of man for a boy to 
look up to. He was no shining example to 
follow. Dave was about as devoid of mor- 
als as a man can get. Drunkard, bruiser, 
gambler, thief; he was all of those. He 
burned the candle at both ends, fast and 
hard — until the candle burned out. 

It was bound to happen sooner or later, 
of course, and happen it did, one frosty 
autumn night Dave DuShane's candle fi- 
nally burned out. And that brings us to 
the strange part of this story, the railroad- 
ing part, and the part that is seared even 
deeper into my memory than my narrow 

escape from death on the end of a lariat. 
10 



TO DESCRIBE just what happened 
on that memorable night, and how 
such a thing could have happened, I must 
first tell you a few facts about our railroad 
as it was in those days. The old line was 
single track, without block signals, and far 
from being a perfect speedway. East of 
Wildhorse it ran through a country of 
broken badlands, and the track had more 
curves than a boa constrictor with acute 
convulsions. It was a nasty piece of road, 
down there in the badlands east of us. Two 
of the worst train wrecks in the history of 
our system occurred on that dreaded stretch 
of rail. There was nothing west on our 
mountain divisions to equal it for continu- 
ous curves, variable grades, restricted visi- 
bility, and railroad tangle in general. 

The first station east of Wildhorse was 
Alcorn, beyond the badlands and some 
twenty miles distant. But there was an 
intermediate passing track between Wild- 
horse and Alcorn, laid out right in the 
heart of the badland wilderness, and its 
name was Badland. It was a lonely and 
desolate place, a blind siding without a tele- 
graph office or any means of communica- 
tion with the outside world. About the 
only signs of life ever seen at Badland 
were a few scrawny range cattle of the old 
Tumbling T ranch, which occasionally wan- 
dered up on the track in front of a train 
and got knocked straight into cow heaven. 

Now those are the brief facts. I men- 
tion them because they have a direct bear- 
ing on what happened that night. Having 
a picture of the layout, you can better un- 
derstand the train movements and the 
events that took place in such a remarkable 
manner. 

ON THE night I speak of, I sat in the 
Wildhorse depot from about eleven 
o'clock on. This was most unusual, for I 
was on day duty at the station and as a rule 
home in bed by ten. But merely by chance 
I had a bit of reporting to do. The road 
had just bought some new passenger loco- 
motives, and one of them was coming 
through from the east that night on Num- 



140 



SHORT STORIES 



ber One. It was my idea to watch the first 
of the new engines rocket through Wild- 
horse, and then write up a piece about it 
for our company magazine. Not that I 
had any journalistic aspirations, but I did 
want to get my name known on the system. 
Even at that age I had started to advertise 
and push, you see, to get somewhere in the 
business. 

So there I sat in the Wildhorse station 
that night, waiting for the arrival of Num- 
ber One. She was due past without stop 
at midnight, but was running rather badly 
off schedule to the east, so I faced a longer 
wait than I had expected. However, for 
companionship I had Dave DuShane, work- 
ing his regular night shift at the telegraph 
key. Dave welcomed my company, too, for 
his job was a dreary drag through the dark 
hours until dawn. 

When midnight passed with no word at 
all of Number One, Dave called the dis- 
patchers at division headquarters for some 
information about the delayed flyer. In 
answer, his telegraph sounder sputtered a 
long series of metallic dots and dashes, 
which Dave translated into English for me. 

"You might as well go home, lad," he 
announced. "The DS office says One 
won't be here before three or four o'clock. 
That new engine is running some hot pins 
and boxes. They've had to tie up and rig 
a keeley line from the tender to water-cool 
the main driver bearing." 

That was disagreeable news. It meant a 
prolonged wait for me, or else give up and 
go home to bed. But I was a determined 
youngster. 

"I'll stick around," I decided. "I'm go- 
ing to get that item for the company maga- 
zine if I have to sit here until breakfast 
time." 

Dave only shrugged. "You'll fall asleep," 
he predicted. "Trying to stay awake all 
night on this job is a tough proposition. I 
know!" 

HE WAS right about it, too. By one 
o'clock I could hardly keep my eyes 
open. Just sitting, that was the worst 



part of it. There was no sound but the 
whine of a frosty wind around the little 
depot, an occasional click of the telegraph 
sounder, and the deadly ticking of the office 
clock. Dave sat at his table in the bay 
window that fronted the track, with a kero- 
sene lamp burning smokily in front of him 
and a quart bottle of whisky alongside. I 
was seated back in the gloom by the heat- 
ing stove, which I industriously stoked 




whenever the monotony of sitting idle be- 
came unbearable. 

Toward two o'clock Dave got up, 
stretched, walked around the room a few 
times. Finally he stopped at the stove and 
glanced in at my fire. In the bright glare 
from the coals I got a good look at his 
features. And the sight really startled me. 

Dave DuShane looked like — well, like a 
man whose candle has about burned out. 
Deep lines of dissipation showed on his 
face, marring its natural handsomeness. 
His usually flashing black eyes were dull 
now, and bloodshot. His thick black hair 
was tousled, his clothing disheveled, and his 
muscular shoulders drooped wearily. 

"Gosh, Dave," I spoke up. "You look 
like the last rose of summer. What's the 
matter with you?" 

"Matter? Nothing. Just a little tired is 
all." He went back to his table, lifted the 
quart bottle to his lips, then wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand. "Been 
on a drunk for a week, lad. Haven't been 



BADLAND MEET) 



in bed for five days. Yeh, I'm a little 
fagged out tonight." 

I was glad then that I was there with 
Dave. It was my guess that he was on the 
verge of keeling over and falling asleep at 
the switch. I didn't want that to happen. 
I didn't want him to get into trouble for 
sleeping on duty — not after the way he had 
rescued me from the cowboys. I made up 
ray mind to struggle and stay awake from 
that minute on, if for no other reason than 
to be sure that Dave stayed awake on his 
job. 

AND stay awake I did, somehow, while 
>■ the minutes ticked away in tiresome 
monotony. It was almost three o'clock be- 
fore we had another report on Number 
One. By that time my head was nodding 
and I was groggy with sleepiness. The 
clicking of the sounder seemed far away, 
and then Dave's weary voice speaking to 
me. 

"Still awake, lad? Well, you won't have 
much longer to wait for Number One. 
She's quit losing time and is making sched- 
ule speed now, steadily. The dispatchers 
have just put out a train order for One to 
meet Twelve at Alcorn." 

Meet Twelve at Alcorn? I roused my- 
self sufficiently to recollect the timetable. 
Number Twelve was the night limited from 
the west. She was due through Wildhorse 
at 3:20 a.m. without stop. Tonight, then, 
Twelve would get past us and as far east as 
Alcorn, the next station beyond the bad- 
lands, to sidetrack for the delayed crack 
flyer, Number One. And then One, racing 
westward through the badlands, would hit 
us at Wildhorse about four o'clock. Such 
was the line-up according to the orders that 
both trains had now received. 

Fine and dandy. If it had worked out 
as planned, all would have been well. But 
it was destined not to be. Even then, 
trouble was brewing to the east. For Num- 
ber One, running four nours late, was be- 
ginning to make up some of that lost time. 
And she was making it up fast. 

At exactly 3:05, Dave's sounder began 



to chatter again. Listening to the message, 
he perked up with sudden interest. Then 
he glanced up at the clock on the walL 
When he saw the time he frowned, whistled 
softly, as if puzzled by it. 

"There's speed for you !" he barked over 
his shoulder to me. "Buckhorn Creek just 
reported Number One by. The BC oper- 
ator says One's new engine is running like 
a house afire. They've made up twenty 
minutes' lost time already." 

"Ugh," I grunted drowsily. "That kind 
of balls up One's meet with Twelve at 
Alcorn, doesn't it?" 

"Sure does," agreed Dave. "It throws 
that Alcorn meet all out of kilter. At this 
rate, One will reach Alcorn by three- 
twenty, the same time Twelve is due here 
at Wildhorse. The dispatchers will have 
to change the meeting point, move it this 
way from Alcorn." 

"Uh-huh. But where to?" 

"To Badland, lad. You know, that God- 
forsaken siding in the rough country be- 
tween here and Alcorn. It's a perfect meet 
for Badland now, since One will reach 
Alcorn so much earlier than expected. The 
dispatchers will shift that meet, you watch 
and see." 

AS A matter of fact, I was too sleepy to 
give a hang where the two trains met. 
But I kept up the discussion, just to help 
me stay awake. 

"Then there'll be an annulment of or- 
ders?" I asked. 

"Bound to be," said Dave. "Both trains 
have orders to meet at Alcorn. Those will 
be cancelled and new ones issued, changing 
the meet to Badland. Number One will 
pick up the new order at Alcorn at three- 
twenty. Number Twelve will get the new 
order here at Wildhorse, from me, at three- 
twenty. And then Twelve will take the 
siding at Badland to clear for One instead 
of running on to Alcorn for the meet." 

Dave was gabbing away for about the 
same reason I was — trying to clear his 
weary and muddled senses. He got up and 
began to pace the floor of the tiny lamp-lit 



142 



SHORT STORIES 



office again, striking his hands together im- 
patiently. This new development in train 
movements had caused him to become 
strained and nervous. He would be called 
on to handle the new order for Number 
Twelve, and there was little leeway in the 
matter of time. The dirty-faced clock on 
the wall registered 3:10 now. 

"If the dispatchers aim to change that 
meet," I muttered, "they'd better hurry up 
and put out the new order for it. Number 
Twelve is due here in ten minutes." 

"And she's reported right on the dot," 
added Dave. He stepped to the bay win- 
dow and peered out into the night. "Yeh, 
the first glow of her headlight is showing 
in the west already. What in the devil 
can be slowing things up at headquarters?" 

With an impatient oath, he broke open 
his telegraph instrument and called the 
division dispatchers. Their answer was 
for Dave to keep his shirt on, and it sent 
him into a tantrum. He grabbed up the 
whisky bottle from his table, took another 
stiff shot out of it, and began to stride 
around the office like a caged animal. 

And then a thought struck me — the order 
board, the semaphore signal above the roof 
of the station. Its red light would have to 
be turned on, if Number Twelve was to be 
stopped and a new order delivered. At the 
moment, the order signal was dark, for the 
rules required that no train be stopped at 
Wildhorse unless the operator actually held 
a train order to deliver to it. 

"Say, Dave," I broke in. "Hadn't you 
better play safe and turn on your red 
light? You don't want Twelve to get away 
from you." 

"Play safe, hell !" swore Dave. "I'm not 
allowed to display my red light without an 
order to deliver. That's regulation. And 
I haven't got an order to deliver to Twelve 
because those fumble-fingered dispatchers 
haven't issued it yet. 'Keep your shirt 
on,' he says — the dirty son of a " 

AND Dave cursed the dispatchers for 
k> their delay; cursed them with such 
bitter hard blasphemy that it ran shivers 



up my spine and reminded me again of 
what I sometimes forgot — that Dave Du- 
Shane was an utterly godless brute, an un- 
principled ruffian of the first water. 

It was 3:15 now, and still nothing from 
the dispatchers. The west pane of the bay 
window was becoming frosted with the in- 
creasing glow of Twelve's headlight. I 
could hear the low rumble of the train in 
the distance. Still cursing, Dave flung 
open the door of the heating stove and be- 
gan to poke up the fire with furious impa- 
tience. 

Then suddenly his telegraph sounder 
broke with a wild burst of stuttering. He 
jumped for the instrument, jumped quickly 
and anxiously, leaving the stove poker 
sticking in the hot coals in his haste. I was 
sitting right there beside the stove, but I 
was too drugged with drowsiness to notice 
the forgotten poker, or care. 

After a moment at the key, Dave spoke 
aloud, but as much to himself as to me. 




And his voice sounded strained and hoarse, 
thick in tone. 

"Here it is at last!" he said. "The 
superseding order for Twelve. Number 
Twelve will hold for Number One at Bad- 
land instead of Alcorn. And it took those 
brainless dispatchers ten minutes to figure 
out a simple meet that an idiot could have 
arranged in ten seconds!" 

The rumble of Twelve was growing 
louder now, and the light on the west win- 
dow brighter. It was just 3:18. Two 
minutes were left in which to stop Twelve 
for its new order. 

Dave promptly got up from his chair to 
turn on the red light of the order board 



BADLAND MEET 



S43 



overhead. His hand reached forward to- 
ward the signal lever, set close beside the 
window. And in that very instant, Dave 
DuShane's waning candle gave its last 
flicker and burned out. 

Rising hurriedly and clumsily, he had 
knocked his chair over backwards on the 
floor. With his hand halfway to the signal 
fever, he paused and turned around to see 
what had caused the racket. When he saw 
the overturned chair, he blinked at \t, mut- 
tered an oath, and stooped over to pick it 
up. The interruption was fatal. 

I WATCHED him, watched him every 
second ; yet I saw him only dimly as in 
a dream, for my eyelids were leaden and 
half closed. For a moment he stood there 
leaning heavily on the back of his righted 
chair. He seemed to sway unsteadily on 
his feet, and to be clutching at support. 
Then abruptly he straightened erect, lifted 
his hands to his haggard face, and pressed 
his palms against his bloodshot eyes. 

"Now let me see," he croaked dazedly. 
"What was I doing? What was I do — 
Oh, yes, I remember. The stove poker. 
Left it in the fire. Damn it to hell, I 
thought I was sober, but I must be drunk!" 

He came over and pulled the poker out 
of the coals. It was red hot to the handle. 
He dropped it quickly on the zinc ash pan. 
Even that noise failed to disturb my sleepy 
stupor. Neither did the long station whis- 
tle of an approaching locomotive bring me 
to my senses. I was in a worse daze than 
Dave, or just as bad. 

From the stove he staggered back to his 
chair and half fell into it. Why, I wondered 
vaguely, did he sit down? Shouldn't he 
have reached forward to turn on — to turn 
on what? My brain was so fogged that it 
refused to function at all. 

"Twelve's almost here," came Dave's 
babbled words. "Can't make a mistake 
about this new order for her. Let's see if 
I've got it written right. Number Twelve 
will hold for Number One at Badland in- 
stead of Alcorn. Twelve will hold for One 
at Badland instead of Alcorn." 



And so help me, I fell dead asleep. 

I was awakened almost instantly. I was 
being shaken; shaken gently, but from 
head to foot. The chair I sat in shook, the 
whole depot shook. I jerked erect, looked 
around, wide-eyed and startled. 

Through the bay window I caught a 
glimpse of movement, of speed. Dull var- 
nish and glass was streaking by, followed 
by the flash of a red-and-green tail light. 
Then the shrill shriek of a locomotive 
whistle faded quickly to a long wail in the 
distance. 

What train was that, so swiftly past? 
My brain was numb. I looked at the clock. 
3 :2&P n Why, that was Number Twelve, of 
course, right on the dot. But 

Shouldn't Twelve have stopped? To 
pick up a train order? 

I looked quickly at Dave. And my 
heart turned a flip-flop. He was standing 
in the center of the room, standing frozen 
and speechless. His mouth hung open, 
his eyes bulged. In his hand was clutched 
a green order tissue. 

"Dave! What is it? What happened ?" 

TJUT I knew what had happened. I 
knew it even before I looked at the 
signal lever and saw it set the wrong way. 
Dave DuShane had forgotten to turn on 
his red order light! 

It stunned me. Twelve gone, without 
that change of orders ! I tried to think 
what would result. Certainly, Twelve 
would fail to take the siding at Badland 
now. She would run on to Alcorn for the 
old meet. And Number One, receiving the 
new order at Alcorn, would start at once 
for Badland, expecting a clear track all the 
way through. The two flyers had, in 
effect, lap orders. There would be a head- 
on collision between them. 

"Dave!" I cried, leaping to my feet. 
"Stop Number One! Get Alcorn on the 
wire and stop One there — quick!" 

The telegraph sounder had started to 
click again. Dave nodded toward it, 
dumbly, hopelessly. I knew no Morse, 
but I knew what Dave meant by that mute 



144 



SHORT STORIES 



nod. Alcorn was reporting Number One 
out, gone. Gone at 3 :20 as expected, after 
receiving the new order saying that Twelve 
would be clear on the Badland siding. 

My scalp prickled at the thought. It was 
too late now to stop that collision. There 
was no way left to warn either train. Only 
the badlands lay between them, and there 
was no living thing in the badlands except 
a few stray Tumbling T cows. Two train- 
loads of people, of peacefully sleeping pas- 
sengers, were doomed to crash together be- 
tween Badland siding and Alcorn. They 
would head-end at full speed on the blind 
curves of that dreaded country, already the 
scene of two major railroad disasters, and 
now about to witness a third and even 
worse catastrophe. 

DESPERATELY I began to grope in 
my mind for some ray of hope, how- 
ever slight. But it was useless, for there 
was no hope. It was just impossible for 
the coming collision to be avoided. Nothing 
could stop it, not even the warning of 
headlight beams. No engineer could see 
an approaching headlight in those broken 
badlands in time to do more than slap at 
his brake valve and jump for the rocks. 
Hopeless ! 

I know my own feelings then. But what 
were the feelings of Dave DuShane, whose 
mistake had caused this tragedy? The 
crumpled and useless train order dropped 
from his fingers and fluttered to the floor. 
He staggered back to his table, reached for 
the half-empty whisky bottle, started to 
lift it to his lips. Then suddenly his arm 
whipped back, and he hurled the bottle 
away from him, violently. It smashed 
through a pane of the bay window, and 
itself was shattered on the depot platform 
Outside. Then Dave dropped heavily into 
his chair, slumped over in it, and buried 
his face in his hands, shuddering. 

With a great effort I began to collect 
my wits. "Listen, Dave," I quavered, 
walking over to him. "Hadn't you better 
tell headquarters? Yes, that's the thing to 
do. Call the dispatchers. Tell them what's 



happened, what is going to happen in a few 
minutes. Tell them to rush relief, an am- 
bulance train, doctors, nurses, the wreck- 
ing crew. Hurry and get busy on your 
key!" 

, For a long moment he remained huddled 
and motionless. Then slowly his face came 
up out of his hands, white and old. Slowly 
he turned to his instrument and called the 
division dispatchers. 

They answered promptly. And then, 
with his finger on the key, Dave's lips 
moved mechanically with the words he 
tapped over the wire to headquarters. 

"Wildhorse. No. 12, out, 3:20 a.m." 

Just that. No more. A regular report 
of train passage. 

I was thunderstruck. I stood and gaped 
at him. It was several seconds before 
speech returned to me. Then it came in a 
rush. 

"Man alive, Dave!" I burst out. "Why 
didn't you tell them the truth? Get help 
started down to those poor people ! Heaven 
knows they'll need it soon enough ! What's 
got into you, anyway?" 

TTE MADE no answer. I doubt if he 
* * even heard me. He got to his feet 
and stood silent and grim, staring vacantly 
into space. Slowly his fingers crept up 
the sides of his head and knotted in his 
heavy black hair. Then suddenly he turned 
and strode across the office to the door of 
the depot baggage room. Jerking it open, 
he stepped through into the pitch darkness 
beyond. The door banged closed behind 
him, and I heard the key click in the lock. 

I could only gaze blankly after him. His 
actions had left me flabbergasted. Why 
had he locked himself in the dark baggage 
room? Why did he refuse to tell head- 
quarters what had happened? Had the 
shock of the coming disaster unbalanced 
his mind? 

My thoughts were in a turmoil. I went 
to the baggage door and pounded on it, 
calling for Dave to come out and notify the 
dispatchers. But there was no answer, no 
sound, within. I beat on the door until 

10 



BADLAND MEET 



H5 



my fists were bruised and bleeding, then 
went back to my chair beside the stove and 
dropped down in it exhausted. 

It was 3 130 now. Number Twelve was 
due at Badland already, making the short 
run from Wildhorse at high speed. At 
that very moment Twelve probably was 
rocketing past the Badland siding on her 
way to doom. As nearly as I could figure 
it, her collision with Number One would 
come just four minutes later — at 3 134. 

My eyes riveted on the office clock with 
horrible fascination. I counted in anguish 
every second of those next terrible min- 




utes. 3 131, 3:32, 3:33. And then— 3:34! 
I could hear the echo of that frightful 
crash in the badlands. But, no; it was 
only my frazzled nerves. The sound I 
heard was the door of the baggage room 
being unlocked and opened. Looking up, 
I saw Dave standing on the threshold. 

"My God!" I said. "I thought I heard 
— Dave, are you going to tell the dispatch- 
ers?" 

"There's no need of it." He stood there 
quietly, his tone strangely calm and as- 
sured. "You're overwrought about this, 
lad. Don't take it so hard. Everything 
will be all right." 

"Be all right?" I echoed. "Two pas- 
senger trains collide in the badlands, and 
you say everything will be all right?" , 

TJE CAME over and put his hand on 
*■ * my shoulder. And there was not 
a tremble to his fingers, I noticed. This 
was not the same man who had entered that 
baggage room, stunned and horror-stricken, 
ten minutes earlier. 

"Stop your worrying, lad," he said. 



"Those two trains didn't collide. There 
hasn't been any wreck at all." 

At that, I went limp all over. No wreck ? 
How had it been avoided? Had I over- 
looked some ray of hope? And what did 
Dave know about it ? 

"Why do you say that ?" I asked weakly. 
"How do you know there hasn't been a 
wreck?" 

Dave turned away, walked back to his 
table in the window, sat down. Reaching 
forward, he turned down the wick of the 
smoky lamp. The yellow flame shrank, 
leaving the room in semidarkness. Then 
he answered my question. 

"Because I prayed ! There hasn't been 
a wreck, because I prayed that there 
shouldn't be one!" 

The words chilled my blood. So the 
shock of horror had affected Dave's mind, 
after all. The man was mad. It would 
have been funny if it hadn't been so tragic. 
Not really prayed! Not Dave DuShane, 
of all men ! 

"You know, lad," he went on, ration- 
ally enough, "I've always been a pretty 
godless sort. You know my reputation — 
booze-hound, barroom bully, company 
thief. I've never said a prayer in my life. 
But I prayed just now. I went in that 
baggage room and prayed my heart out. 
Whatever I've been or done, I don't go in 
for killing innocent people in droves. I 
don't want my hands stained with the blood 
of those helpless passengers. A thing like 
this will break any man, if he's human at 
all." 

THERE was no doubting his sincerity. 
I could tell by the tone of his voice 
that he meant every word of it. But Dave's 
personal reaction was beside the point, 
which was a cold matter of a major rail- 
road disaster miles away. 

"I don't blame you for praying," I said. 
"I'd have done the same thing. But this 
is practical railroad operation. You should 
have called headquarters for help immedi- 
ately. Surely you can't believe a prayer 



146 



SHORT STORIES 



has stopped that collision from taking 
place." 

"Yes, I believe just that," declared Dave. 

"But why? It's so ridiculous!" 

"No, it isn't ridiculous, lad. You see, 
I had an answer to my prayer. While I 
was kneeling in the baggage room, just a 
few moments before the collision was due, 
I had an answer. Not an answer in words, 
or a vision of angels, or any of that silly 
stuff; but an answer, just the same. I felt 
it, somehow. The collision did not take 
place." 

"Then what happened to stop it?" 

"I don't know, lad. I haven't the faint- 
est idea of what happened. But I'm certain 
there has been no wreck. Everything will 
be all right. I prayed, and received an 
answer." 

Well, that was the last straw. "Prayed 
and received an answer!" It was just too 
much to believe. I was convinced then that 
Dave DuShane had lost his mind. His 
brain had cracked under the blow of 
tragedy. I could think of no other explana- 
tion for it. As for imploring him any 
longer to notify the dispatchers, that was 
clearly useless. 

BY NOW it was nearing four o'clock. 
If the two trains had passed safely at 
Badland, as Dave seemed to think, it was 
now time for Number One to have arrived 
here at Wildhorse. But One was not here. 
Neither was there any glow of headlight in 
the eastern sky. 

Soon the telegraph sounder began to 
click and sputter again. Headquarters was 
calling. Dave responded, sent reply. This 
conversing was repeated several times. At 
length Dave pulled out the plugs and cut 
his instruments off the wire circuit, leaving 
us in silence. 

"The dispatchers are up in the air," he 
remarked. "They keep asking why Num- 
ber One hasn't arrived here yet from Bad- 
land, and why Number Twelve hasn't 
reached Alcorn. I've told them there's 
some kind of delay at Badland, but nothing 
serious. There's no use for me to keep 



repeating it, so I'll go dead-wire until I 
learn what's happened." 

Then we sat there, just sat there, listen- 
ing to the clock tick away the dreadful 
minutes. If I had hoped against hope 
earlier, I gave it up now, for it was after 
four o'clock and still no sign of Number 
One. Of course, it had been hopeless from 
the first. Two trainloads of people had 
been slaughtered, Dave DuShane was 
crazy, and that's all there was to it. 

The minutes passed, somehow. Ten of 
them, twenty, thirty, forty. A full hour 
dragged by. Still we sat there in the gloom. 
I felt too weak to move off my chair. I 
could only hold my head in my hands and 
try to blot out the nightmarish visions — 
visions of scores of humans mangled and 
dying in the badlands, with no aid coming 
to them, their plight unknown to anyone 
except a helpless kid and an insane oper- 
ator. 

THEN suddenly I heard a word, one 
word, spoken by Dave. 
"Smoke !" 

I looked up, and through the bay win- 
dow saw a strange dull light outside. Then 
I realized that daylight was breaking. The 
clock said 5:10 now. A sad gray twilight 
hung over the prairies, and frost was white 
on the sagebrush. 

Smoke? I jumped up and over to Dave's 
window. I peered eastward down the 
track, eastward toward the badlands. Dawn 
was a blood-red streak on the ragged 
horizon. And against the crimson, darkly, 
there showed a little black smudge, like the 
smoke of a locomotive in the distance. 

A locomotive? Coming out of the bad- 
lands? What could it be? Not Number 
One, surely! That was impossible, now. 
I left Dave sitting at his table and dashed 
outside to the track. 

Standing there on the depot platform, I 
squinted my eyes against the growing dawn. 
Yes, it was an engine coming. And com- 
ing like a bat out of hell. She was raising 
a white cloud of alkali dust to mingle with 
her black smoke. 



BADLAND MEET 



147 



Then I saw it, nearer. A passenger lo- 
comotive. But a strange one, an engine 
I'd never seen on our road before. What 
the devil! Were my eyes deceiving me? 
Or had I gone crazy like Dave? 

No, it was real. A strange engine run- 
ning toward me like mad. And behind it, 
now, a long gray line of dust-coated sleep- 
ing cars. Good God ! — could that be Num- 
ber One and her brand-new locomotive 
approaching? I'd never write this report 
for our company magazine; the story was 
too big for me to handle. 

Now a whistle shrieked. An engineer's 
goggled head poked out of the cab window. 
A gauntleted arm waved me back away 
from the track. Then a blast of wind al- 
most bowled me over. There was a rush 
and a roar, pounding of wheels, screech of 
flanges, flash of smoking trucks. Dust 
choked me, gravel peppered me. And 
Number One was past like a shot, more 
than five hours late now and really burning 
the steel. 

I BURST back into the station, laughing 
aloud. I must have been a little hys- 
terical. 

"Dave!" I yelled. "Did you see that? 
Did you see it?" 

"Yes," said Dave simply. "It was Num- 
ber One." 

"But how did it happen? How could it 
ever have happened?" 

"I still don't know, lad." He shook his 
head gravely. "I still haven't the slightest 
idea of what happened. It was the answer 
to my prayer. That's all I can say." 

But we soon found out what had hap- 
pened. Dave plugged in his instrument 
again, and almost at once got the informa- 
tion off the wire. Number Twelve had 
just been flagged down at Alcorn for her 
crew to explain to the dispatchers what had 
caused the long delay at Badland. And 
this is what had occurred, as Twelve's 
conductor told it: 

Number Twelve, having only the old 

train order calling for a meet with Number 
10 



One at Alcorn, had of course run past 
Badland instead of sidetracking there. But 
on the first curve beyond Badland, 
Twelve's engine had hit a steer — one of 
those confounded Tumbling T cattle that 
were always wandering up on the track in 
the badlands and getting knocked into cow 
heaven. Instead of getting boosted over 
the telegraph wires as usual, however, this 
animal went down under the engine wheels. 
And one of its large leg bones derailed the 
pony wheels of Twelve's locomotive. 

Naturally, the engineman made an 
emergency stop. Then, according to safety 
regulations, the train crew piled out to flag 
the track in both directions from the dis- 
abled flyer. The head brakeman strolled 
a few hundred feet up the rails eastward, 
and to his utter astonishment, suddenly 
saw Number One's headlight come zoom- 
ing around a curve ahead of him. At once 
the brakeman broke out a red flare, and 
Number One, spotting the desperate signal, 
just managed to stop pilot to pilot with 
the derailed engine of Number Twelve. 

Afterward, it had taken an hour or so 
to rerail those pony wheels. And then 
Twelve had reversed and backed into the 
Badland siding, trembling and thankful, 
after comparing orders with One. 

1 LEANED feebly against the table and 
looked at Dave taking the story off the 
sounder. 

"Well, can you beat that?" I exclaimed 
weakly. "A cow derailing a train ! Why, 
such a thing wouldn't happen once in a 
thousand times. And yet it happened this 
time, at the exact moment when it was 
needed. What a lucky accident that was !" 

"Only," said Dave quietly, "it wasn't an 
accident. It was — it was sent." 

Well, was it? Had it been just a queer 
twist of chance that saved those trains? 
Or was it what Dave DuShane so deeply 
believed — a practical demonstration of the 
power of prayer ? Freak accident or divine 
miracle, I do not know. Your guess is as 
good as mine. 



148 



SHORT STORIES 



| Whichever it was, Dave was through 
now. His job was gone. For failing to 
deliver a train order he would be dis- 
charged, blacklisted, run out of the game 
for life. You could get away with a lot of 
things on the railroads in those days — 
boozing, fighting, even stealing the com- 
pany cash ; but you couldn't get away with 
one bad operating mistake. Oh, no; Dave 
DuShane was done. As a railroad teleg- 
rapher he was washed up, forever and a 
day. 

"But there's a way to beat the blacklist," 
I reminded him, trying not to be too down- 
hearted about it. "You can go somewhere 
else and work under a false name. Plenty 
of other railroaders have done it. Wherever 
you go, Dave, I'll go with you." 

"No, lad." He got up and put his arm 
around my shoulders. "You stay here and 
— and push. Don't be a fool like I've been. 
There's a new generation of railroad men 
coming, and they won't be drunken toughs 
like me and a lot of the others. Make your- 
self one of those new men, lad. Who 
knows, you might even push yourself up 
to be president of this system some day." 
; "But you, Dave. What's to become of 
you, now?" 

"Just this." He bent to his instrument, 
called headquarters, and told the dispatch- 
ers to send a new telegrapher to Wildhorse 
to replace Operator DuShane, resigned. 
"I've got another job in mind," he added. 
"A better job than this. It just occurred 
to me. I'm going to — Hold on, lad! 
What's wrong?" 

HE SAW me fall back against the wall, 
suddenly stunned. I thought I'd had 
my share of shocks that night, but here was 
another, perhaps the greatest shock of all. 

"Your hair, Dave!" I gasped. "It's — 
why, it's " 

1 Words failed me. I hadn't noticed it 
before, because the light in the office had 
been dim and I'd been too upset to notice 
much of anything. But now, with the first 
rays of the rising sun striking through the 
window full on Dave, I saw that astound- 



ing sight. Dave's hair, his thick mop of 
coal-black hair, had turned white! 

Of course, I'd read of people's hair sud- 
denly turning gray or white under the 
stress of some great emotional upheaval. 
But I'd always taken such yarns with a 
grain of salt. At least I never expected to 
witness such a phenomenon. Yet here it 
was before my eyes. Sometime between 
the passage of Number Twelve and the ar- 
rival of Number One — perhaps while he 
was in the baggage room learning to pray 
— Dave DuShane's hair had turned as 
white as a ball of cotton. That capped the 
climax of a series of events which, as I 
said at the beginning, formed the strangest 
experience I have ever encountered in a 
lifetime of railroad service. 

All this, to repeat, took place a long 
while ago. Railroading has changed a lot 
since then, and the men have changed even 
more than the business. Only Wildhorse 
remains the same, a jerkwater cow country 
town. Still, it has a church now, and the 
church stands on a corner that used to be 
the site of the largest saloon in the county. 
So even Wildhorse has changed some, too, 
since those days. 

And now, my friend, I am afraid I'm 
overdue for an appointment with my board 
of directors. But before I excuse myself 
there is one more thing I'd like to say. If 
you should ever visit Wildhorse and attend 
Sunday service at the church I mentioned, 
I want you to take a good look at the 
preacher. You'll find him to be an old 
man, but for all his advanced age, still tall 
and powerful and handsome, with flash- 
ing black eyes and a great mop of snowy 
white hair. And if you should ask the 
old-timers in the congregation whether 
their pastor is a good man, a godly man, 
worthy to hold a pulpit, the old-timers will 
tell you this : 

That the Rev. Mr. David DuShane 
hasn't touched liquor or uttered a single 
cuss word since a certain night, many long 
years ago, when his hair turned white be- 
tween the passage of two trains and he 
quit a railroad job to join the clergy. 
10 



The Tonto Kid Turns Peace Officer — But Not for Long 




Heading South 

By HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS 

Author of 

"A Slim Chance," "Wildcat Reward," "Slim Plays a Fast Game," etc. 

THE bank window was riddled past, after their unsuccessful attempt to loot 

with bullets. Bits of bark were the First National Bank. Emerson, the 

chipped from the plaza trees. A druggist, a puncher from the Pecos, and 

bay saddle horse staggered the cashier of the First National Bank lay 

across the plaza, sank down and dead in the plaza. One of the Randall gang 

lay with head outstretched. Citizens of the was badly wounded but still in the saddle, 
state capital crept warily from behind The volley fired into the governor's 

counter and door, emerged from recessed mansion was an echo of the gang's fre- 

hallways. The smell of burnt powder hung quently repeated challenge to the chief 

in the air. Someone telephoned the gov- executive; if he wanted them, he could 

ernor's mansion that the Randall gang had come and get them. Several times in the 

again raided die town. So far as the gov- past five years the invitation had been ac- 

ernor himself was concerned, the news cepted. But as yet no posse or peace 

was a bit late. The Randalls had fired officer had been able to dislodge the out- 

into the governor's mansion as they raced laws from their stronghold in Horse Thief 
i« 149 



SHORT STORIES 



Canyon. The canyon itself was all but in- 
accessible, and the mountain trails west led 
into the Bad Lands, affording an easy re- 
treat in case of a prolonged attack. The 
Hamills of Thunder Mountain controlled 
the timberland and high meadows south of 
the canyon. The Hamills themselves were 
notoriously unfriendly toward peace of- 
ficers. 

The day following the raid, a slim, rather 
carefully dressed man of about thirty called 
on the governor. The caller's name, the 
governor learned, was Alexander Akers. 
Always out for votes, the governor smiled. 
"Sandy Acres, eh?" 

"So I have been told. But not gritty 
enough to go after the Randall outfit." 

The governor's heavy gray eyebrows 
went up. Mr. Akers hadn't been in the 
reception room five minutes, and he had 
put his finger on a sore spot. This was 
just a little bit too swift. As governor of 
the state, The Honorable Frank B. Row- 
land felt entitled to a little more respect. 
"To just what am I indebted " he be- 
gan stiffly. 

"For the pleasure of this visit?" Mr. 
Akers proffered a cigar which, not being 
accepted, he lighted himself. "Or for my 
remark about the Randalls ?" 

"Let us say both." 

Mr. Akers nodded. "That saves time. 
However, allow me to point out that I 
didn't make the mistake of calling you 
Frank." 

It pleased the governor to be facetious. 
"Frank with a capital, or lower case?" 
"Let us say both." 

THE governor was no fool — he couldn't 
afford to be. So he let down the bars. 
"Haven't I met you before?" 

"Several times, when you were a private 
citizen. But I don't care to trespass on that 
circumstance. About a year before you 
received the nomination, if you haven't for- 
gotten, the pleasure of your company netted 
my establishment something like five hun- 
dred dollars." 

A good politician, the governor could 



remember that poker game and laugh. 
"Correct! You are Slim Akers." 

"Gambler. Now we're on common 
ground." 

"How are things going, Akers?" 

"Quietly, in my line." 

"Could I persuade you to take a little 
drink?" 

"Why, yes — if you won't smoke." 
"Not — well — let's try one of those 
cigars." 

Again Mr. Akers gracefully proffered a 
cigar which the governor accepted as an 
accompaniment to the little drink. 

"Wonderful," said Mr. Akers, setting 
down his glass, "how a little conversation 
loosens up the rivets." 

"Especially the unofficial rivets. What 
can I do for you?" 

"Issue a pardon for Young Pete, better 
known as The Tonto Kid." 

Governor Rowland was surprised, more 
than surprised, and he showed it. Mr. 
Akers' nerve hadn't failed any since their 
last meeting. "But Akers!" 

"Your constituents, and so forth. Of 
course ! I expected that. Barring a select 
few, your constituents know as little about 
the real history of The Tonto Kid as you 
do. He's a bad man, a gunman, a killer. 
That's wholesale opinion, never sifted. 
What started him riding the high trails? 
When did he ever bump off a man with- 
out giving that man every chance in the 
world to either back down or pull his gun? 
How many times has he let a peace officer 
go when he could have blown his head off? 
When did The Kid ever go back on a 
friend," Mr. Akers looked the governor 
hard in the eye, "or play a favorite? I've 
traveled with The Tonto Kid for a good 
many years. I know him both ways from 
the jack. There isn't a straighter man in 
the state, nor a man with more sand. But 
your newspapers and your loose mouthed 
gentlemen who read them, all have it that 
The Kid is a rattler that will strike any- 
thing that comes within reach. To the 
contrary, if the peace officers of this unen- 
lightened community had spent as much 

to 



HEADING SOUTH 



time leaving him alone as he has trying to 
keep out of trouble, he'd hung up his gun 
and give the law a chance to get a little 
much needed sleep. Pardon .him, and see 
if I am not correct." 

THE governor felt there was consider- 
able justice in the suggestion. The 
Tonto Kid, in spite of his record, was more 
a victim of circumstance than a deliberate 
lawbreaker. But to pardon him offhand 
would raise a storm of protest. Political 
rivals would charge him with currying 
favor with the wild bunch. It wouldn't do. 
For a full minute Governor Rowland 
studied the blotter on his desk. "I'm sorry, 
Akers," he said finally. "But it is im- 
possible." 

"Pardon a contradiction. You're not 
sorry — yet. But you feel you might be, 
next election time. I had anticipated your 
reply. This is my proposition. Give The 
Kid a pardon, deputize him and turn him 
loose, and he'll clean up the Randall outfit 
or get shot to pieces trying. Either way, 
you win." 

"Have you talked with him?" 

"Plenty. Now, I'm talking for him." 

"Why didn't he come and see me him- 
self?" 

Mr. Akers allowed himself a smile. "Get- 
ting right down to cases, he doesn't trust 
you." 

"And you do?" 

"I'm not The Tonto Kid." 

Governor Rowland frowned. "Folks 
seem to hold me personally responsible for 
the existence of the Randall gang." 

"Aren't you?" 

The back of Governor Rowland's neck 
tingled. This man Akers was too damned 
insistent. Like a bulldog on the end of a 
sack, he wouldn't let go. Swing the sack 
and he would hang on all the harder. Per- 
sonally responsible for the existence of the 
Randall gang! The governor snorted, in- 
wardly. Outwardly he remained the smil- 
ing politician. "Responsible? Hardly, 
Akers. Trouble is, when we do go after 
10 



the Randalls we don't get any cooperation 
from the community." 

IT WAS Mr. Akers' turn to show sur- 
prise. "Then Emerson the druggist, 
cashier Harrison, and that young puncher 
from the Pecos stood off eight of the Ran- 
dall gang yesterday just for the pleasure of 
getting shot at, and killed?" 

"A splendid example of individual cour- 
age." 

"Yes, I know. But they wouldn't have 
put it that way. They figured, as citizens, 




it was their job. That's what I call co- 
operation." 

"Accidental cooperation, if you wish." 

"Got results, didn't it?" 

"That isn't the point." 

Mr. Akers was sorely tempted to say 
several things. Had he been suing for a 
pardon for himself he would have said 
them. But he represented his friend The 
Tonto Kid, so he restrained himself. "You 
speak of cooperation. That's exactly what 
I'm offering. Sheriff Yardlaw has failed 
to land the gang, and Buck is the best man 
in the state, barring one. Deputize The 
Tonto Kid and he'll make good." 

"I can hardly deputize an outlaw." 

"That's a joke. I could name seven or 
eight outlaws drawing salaries from the 
state. I would even be willing to name 'em 
in print." Mr. Akers rose. 

Governor Rowland gestured to him to sit 
down. "No hurry, Akers. Let's look at 



142 



SHORT STORIES 



this from another angle. Suppose I issue 
the pardon. What guarantee have I that 
The Kid will clean up the gang?" 

"None, whatever. He'll try." 

"All right. Tell him to go ahead." 
Governor Rowland waved a magnanimous 
hand. "If he turns the trick I'll issue the 
pardon." 

Mr. Akers deliberated. "No. The Kid 
' won't go after them without written au- 
thority from you. The pardon can come 
later," 

Governor Rowland reached for a pad, 
wrote a brief line and handed it to his 
visitor. "Tell him to take this to room 28, 
Capitol Building. Glad you came in, 
Akers. Give my regards to The Kid." 

ARRIVING in the state capital following 
the attempted bank robbery, Sheriff 
Yardlaw was summoned to a private con- 
ference with the governor. Yardlaw was 
instructed to ignore the Randall gang and 
the recent raid, also to keep his hands off 
The Tonto Kid should the latter show up. 
The tall, grizzled sheriff was not over- 
pleased with these instructions. The gov- 
ernor had tied his hands. Sheriff Yard- 
law decided to do a little intelligent listen- 
ing. 

A day later, while loafing in the Capitol 
Hotel bar the sheriff heard a voice he knew. 
Turning he saw The Tonto Kid's friend, 
Mr. Slim Akers, conversing with the pro- 
prietor of the local gambling hall. Mr. 
Akers had no establishment in town. His 
presence in the Capitol was interesting. 
Yardlaw concealed his curiosity with a 
brief nod to the gambler, who finally left 
his companion and joined the sheriff. 

"This," said Akers, "is no place to talk 
politics." 

"Who wants to talk politics?" growled 
Yardlaw. 
"I do." 

If anyone knew why the governor was 
protecting The Tonto Kid it would be Mr. 
Akers. Recalling the governor's injunction 
to keep his hands off The Tonto Kid, the 
sheriff accepted Mr. Akers' invitation to 



more private quarters — an upstairs hotel 
room overlooking the plaza. Not that the 
gambler ever did any loose talking. But 
he had expressed a desire to talk. 

"Have a cigar," said Mr. Akers. 

"Just had one." 

"Have a drink?" 

"Just had one." 

"Well, have a chair." 

It was warm, and they sat by the open 
window. "Suppose," said the gambler, 
"we get down to cases." 

"Suits me." 

"You're taking a little vacation. Don't 
be surprised that I know it. I'm largely 
responsible." 

Yardlaw said nothing. 

"Just between ourselves, Buck, the gov- 
ernor has deputized The Tonto Kid to go 
out and clean up the Randall outfit." 

Yardlaw nodded. 

"If The Kid busts the gang, he gets his 
pardon." 

"I'll be damned glad if he does." 

"Save us all a lot of wear and tear, won't 
it? You know as well as I do, that Young 
Pete is entitled to a break. I had an idea 
the governor would talk to you about it. 
But you can't always tell about governors." 

"Or about The Kid." Yardlaw nodded 
toward the plaza. 

"Yes. I've been watching him." Mr. 
Akers leaned out. "Hey, Pete, come on up 
and meet a friend." 

THE gaunt, grizzled sheriff rose, took 
off his belt and gun and laid them on 
the dresser. This was a great concession 
for the fighting sheriff to make to his old 
enemy The Tonto Kid. And yet it was 
natural enough. Between them existed no 
personal enmity. For several years Yard- 
law had trailed The Kid. Several times 
they had met in battle. Outlaw and peace 
officer they had come to respect each other's 
nerve and ability. Now a pencilled line 
from the governor and a little piece of 
plated metal had put them on an equal 
footing socially. In disarming himself the 
sheriff had been wise. The Tonto Kid 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



153 



would never take advantage of an unarmed 
man. 

Someone knocked on the hotel room 
door, and although it was unlocked, waited 
for it to be opened. Mr. Akers did the 
honors. "This young fellow," he said as 
Young Pete stepped in, "is The Tonto 
Kid." 

Young Pete grinned. "Hello, Buck. 
How's it goin'?" 

Noting the belt and gun on the dresser, 
The Kid followed Yardlaw's example. Mr. 
Akers insisted that they shake hands. Yard- 
law smiled. "Understand you're going 
after the Randall gang." 

"So Slim tell me." 

"Going in alone?" 

"Sure ! I don't want any posse messin' 
up my party." 

Dark eyed, slender, boyish except when 
his eyes hardened, Young Pete stood look- 
ing at the sheriff. Gaunt, battle scarred, 
Yardlaw gazed at the youth who so often 
had given him the slip. Mr. Akers relieved 
what seemed a slight tension. "First time 
you fellows have ever shaken hands, I 
take it?" 

Young Pete laughed. "Hell, I been 
willin' to shake hands with Buck any time 
he let go his gun." 

Yardlaw indicated the badge on Young 
Pete's vest. "How does it feel to be wear- 
ing one of those things?" 

"Kinda like hidin' behind a tree when 
you're shootin'. I don't figure to be wear- 
in' it long." 

"Don't know that you will, if you stack 
up against the Randall outfit single 
handed." 

"The fella that gets it can keep it." 

Sheriff Yardlaw nodded grimly. "Bart 
Randall might like to try for it. He's in 
town." 

RANDALL was in town! This was 
news. Yet Young Pete said nothing. 
Slim Akers merely elevated his eyebrows. 
Randall's brother was in town, probably 
scouting for the gang. Both Slim and 
Young Pete knew that Yardlaw would have 



gone after him except for the governor's 
orders. "I'd kind of like to meet him," 
said Pete finally. "What does he look 
like?" 

Yardlaw told him. For a moment Young 
Pete stood gazing down onto the plaza. 
Presently he rose and moved toward the 
door. "Guess you fellas'll have to excuse 
me for a couple of minutes." 

"Don't make it any longer," said Slim 
Akers. 

The door closed. Mr. Akers glanced at 
Yardlaw. The sheriff rose. 

"I feel like taking a little walk," declared 
the gambler. 

Buck Yardlaw picked up his belt and 
gun and followed Mr. Akers down to the 
street. "It's his party," said Mr. Akers 
as they moved toward the Capitol Saloon. 
"Unless another one of the gang should 
happen to be in town. I don't want to see 
anyone get shot in the back." 

Opposite the front of the saloon stood a 
telephone pole. Against the pole leaned 
Young Pete, his thumbs in the arm holes 
of his vest. His hat was pushed back. A 
thin smile played about his mouth. Directly 
across the street in the doorway of the sad- 
dle shop stood Mr. Akers and Sheriff 
Yardlaw. Mr. Akers was smoking a cigar. 
Yardlaw was gazing at a cowpony tied to 
a hitch rail half a block away, a bay and 
white paint horse. Altogether too showy, 
reflected Yardlaw. Too easily spotted. 
The horse belonged to Bart Randall, 
brother of the outlaw. Mr. Akers' gaze 
was fixed on the doorway of the Capitol. 

WITH no definite plan in mind, Young 
Pete had begun his campaign by 
simply awaiting developments. Sooner or 
later Randall's brother would show up. 
If the outlaw wanted a fight he could have 
it. If he chose to ignore the deputy loaf- 
ing outside the saloon, Pete would not 
challenge him. But he would mark him 
down, note how he dressed and acted. A 
mining man and a local attorney came out 
of the saloon, glanced at the young fellow 
leaning against the telephone pole and 



154 



SHORT STORIES 



moved on. In the doorway of the saddle 
shop Yardlaw and Slim Akers stood talk- 
ing quietly. The paint horse stamped and 
switched flies. A number of townsfolk 
were passing back and forth. Pete noted 
that there was not a town constable in 
sight. 

Black hair, blue eyes, medium build, 
about twenty-five years old, acts tough. 
Yardlaw's description of Bart Randall. 
Aware that the gang had friends in town, 
Young Pete kept the telephone pole at his 
back. 

Glancing across the street he noted that 
Slim Akers and the sheriff were leaving the 
doorway of the saddle shop — as plain a hint 
as he could wish. The saddle shop was 
directly in line of fire should the man who 
had just come out of the Capitol Saloon 
happen to be Randall. Pete seemed to be 
talking to himself. "Black hair, blue eyes 
. . ." The roughly clad man coming to- 
ward him stopped and stared at the badge 
on Pete's vest. 'Acts tough," murmured 
Pete, flicking his half smoked cigarette into 
the gutter. Casually The Tonto Kid 
glanced at the other man, whose face was 
lined with a sneer of disdain for the young, 
slender, smooth faced youth sporting a 
deputy's badge. Still leaning easily against 
the telephone pole, Pete seemed to be star- 
ing at the other's boots, powdered with the 
red clay dust of the hill country. Yardlaw 
had disappeared. Slim Akers was stand- 
ing a few doors up the street from the sad- 
dle shop. 

"Anything about those boots you don't 
like?" 

Young Pete looked up questioningly. 
"Talkin' to me?" 
"Talking to you." 

"All right. Go ahead." Pete saw Ran- 
dall glance toward the paint horse. 

"You're feeling real healthy, ain't you?" 

Pete nodded. "Real healthy." 

Randall strode up and flicked his finger 
at the deputy's badge as though snapping 
a fly from Young Pete's vest. 

"Anything about that badge you don't 



like?" Pete moved an inch or two, freeing 
his shoulder from the telephone pole. 

RANDALL seemed to hesitate. Finally 
he swung round, and turning his back 
on The Tonto Kid, started to walk toward 
the paint horse at the hitch rail. Slim 
Akers, across the street, thought that the 
outlaw had backed down. But Young Pete 
had a different idea. Hardly had the out- 
law taken two steps when he whirled. The 
guns of the outlaw and The Tonto Kid 
crashed like a single shot. Slim Akers 
groaned. His sympathy was wasted. Ran- 
dall swayed and fell, face down on the 
sidewalk. Gun poised, Young Pete walked 
slowly toward him. 

In the few seconds between the time 
Randall had accosted The Tonto Kid, and 




the shooting, but one or two had seen the 
fight, or knew exactly what had happened. 
In the crowd gathering round the dead out- 
law, loomed the grizzled face of Sheriff 
Yardlaw. "Yes, it's Bart Randall," he said. 
But when questioned as to who shot the 
outlaw, Yardlaw had no answer. Rumor 
spread that Buck Yardlaw had killed Bart 
Randall. When the news reached the gov- 
ernor, he sent for Yardlaw and got the 
facts. Apparently uninterested in the 
shooting, Mr. Slim Akers stood a few feet 
up the street using his pen knife to dig 
a bullet from a telephone pole. 

In Mr. Akers' room in the Capitol Hotel 
sat Young Pete gazing down onto the plaza. 
No matter what happened now, he wouW 
have to go through with the job. The 
elder Randall wouldn't leave a leg under 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



155 



a horse till he rode down the man who had 
killed his brother. 

Cool and smiling, Mr. Slim Akers en- 
tered the room. Walking over to The 
Tonto Kid he laid a lead slug on the win- 
dow sill. "Compliments of Bart Randall. 
I figured he had got you." 

"No. Because he didn't know what I 
would do. The minute he started to walk 
away, I knew what he would do. Some 
fellas make mistakes like that."" 

"Going to stay around town and take 
them on as they come?" 

Pete shook his head. "I'm going over 
into their country. I know the trails pretty 
well. I'll need a pack horse and some grub. 
Mebby you or Buck can stake me." 

"Buck will let you have 'most anything 
he's got. Know where he was when the 
ruckus started?" 

"No." 

"He was sitting in the upstairs window 
of Rodney's, next to the saddle shop. No 
one would have got you from behind." 

"And I suppose you were wearin' a tele- 
graph pole for a chest protector." 

"That's exactly what I was doing. How 
would you like a little drink?" 

"When I can't handle myself without 
liquor, I'll hang up my gun." 

Slim Akers glanced at his friend. Young 
Pete was staring out of the window, ap- 
parently lost in thought. 

THE next day a rumor spread that The 
Tonto Kid was in town. An eye wit- 
ness of the shooting was responsible for the 
news. Governor Rowland, who didn't want 
The Tonto Kid's presence advertised, was 
anything but pleased. But Yardlaw pointed 
out that it was the best thing that could 
have happened. The news would reach 
Randall, who, while he would hardly risk 
another raid immediately, probably would 
quietly send in someone to get The Tonto 
Kid, and thus split up the gang. "Let 
folks talk all they want to," advised Yard- 
law. "Let them say The Tonto Kid is 
hiding somewhere in town until he can 
make a safe get away. Just as long as no 



one actually knows where he is, just so 
much easier it will be for him to follow 
out his plans." 

"What are his plans?" asked the gover- 
nor bluntly. 

"I don't know what his plans are. I 
don't even know whether he's in town or 
not." 

The governor who wished to give some 
carefully edited news to the papers, sur- 
mised that Yardlaw knew considerably 
more than he cared to tell. "Governor is 
out to clean up the Randall gang." That 
would make a valuable headline. But the 
headline didn't appear. Even Young Pete's 
closest friend, Mr. Akers, seemed to know 
nothing about his whereabouts. 

Meanwhile Young Pete, riding his own 
horse and leading a pack animal loaned 
him by Yardlaw, was riding south. Not 
until he was some miles out from the capi- 
tal, did he swing west and make for the 
hills. Neither Yardlaw nor Akers knew 
just when he left or which way he would 
ride. 

At dawn he made camp in the timbered 
range of Thunder Mountain. His next 
ride would bring him well over the range 
and into San Dimas valley. Heading up 
San Dimas, another eight hours' ride 
would locate him in the rough, rock-strewn 
foothills back of Horsethief Canyon. Sur- 
mising that the Randall gang had scattered 
following the recent raid, Young Pete 
planned to hunt them out one at a time — 
a fool's job, with the chances a hundred 
to one that he would not come out of the 
venture alive. But that bothered him con- 
siderably less than the fact that he, who 
had been hunted from Mexico to the Cana- 
dian border, was now the hunter. Reason 
told him that he was right — that he had 
the law behind him, that every member 
of the gang was a killer who would shoot 
him or any other peace officer on sight. 
Yet he hated the job, and had he not given 
his word that he would see it through, he 
would have quit long before he reached 
the backyard of the Randall stronghold. 



SHORT STORIES 



BOTH his horses staked well down the 
mountainside, Young Pete climbed to 
the crest overlooking Horsethief Canyon. 
The air was clear and warm, the grass on 
the range stirrup-high. Below, the great 
rock walled cleft of Horsethief Canyon 
spread from a knife-edge to a wide boulder- 
strewn wash where it met the distant des- 
ert. The ledge trail leading up to the stone 
house where, several years ago he had 
fetched the mortally wounded Pecos, 
showed sharp edged in the morning sun. 
In the corral back of the house stood two 
horses. Young Pete reasoned that at least 
two of the outlaws were at the gang's head- 
quarters, possibly the man wounded in the 
recent raid and a companion. Pete did 
some reckoning. Bart Randall was out of 
it. That left seven to be accounted for. 
If two were holding out in the canyon, 
there must be five of the outlaws scattered 
back in the hill country. Two of the gang 
he knew my sight, Ed Randall and his 
right hand man, Harper. The other five 
he knew by name only ; Lindquist, a Pecos 
cowboy and cattle rustler, Stevens, said 
to hail from the Tonto Valley, Bill Page, 
a former deputy sheriff, White Eye John- 
son, a Texan, and Sarg, once a railroad 
man, who had joined the wild bunch. From 
Yardlaw's description Young Pete thought 
he could recognize them. As there was al- 
ways the possibility that one or two of the 
gang might visit the canyon for word with 
their chief, or for supplies, Pete sat watch- 
ing the stone house. After a half hour 
or so, he closed his eyes to clear his vision. 
When he opened them, a man was coming 
out of the stone house carrying another 
man. The figures were too far for Pete 
to catch any detail, but by the way the 
man being carried hung in the other's arms 
Pete judged him to be either unconscious 
or dead. In either case, why carry him 
out of the house? The man carrying the 
other walked to the rim of the ledge, paused 
for a second and then heaved his inanimate 
burden into the canyon below. 

"Thaf s one way of buryin' 'em," mut- 



tered Young Pete. Evidently the man 
wounded in the raid had died. 

HARDENED by a life of outlawry, 
Young Pete tried to ignore the bru- 
tality of dumping a body into a canyon 
like a log. While aware that on the ledges 
or anywhere along those rocky walls there 
was no place to make a grave, and to pack 
the body up to the timber and bury it 
would have been a risky job because the 
Randalls were on the watch, still no logic 
could convince him that the act was either 
necessary, or decent. 

Seldom curious as to motives except as 
they might affect his own welfare, Young 
Pete was irritated by a growing urge to 
meet the man who had so callously dis- 
posed of his companion. Pete wanted to 
size him up, note what kind of an eye he 
had and how he carried himself under 
ordinary circumstances. He was almost 
tempted to make his way into the canyon 
and wait on one of the ledges above the 
stone house until the outlaw appeared. 
While he might get away with it, it would 
be a foolish and unnecessary risk. At any 
moment one or more of the gang hiding 
back in the hills might take a notion to visit 
the stone house. Moreover, it was not a 
good idea to leave his horses too long. 
Someone might happen to discover them 
and surmising that their owner was not 
in that part of the country strictly for the 
fun of it, ambush and kill him. He could, 
he told himself, lie out on one of the canyon 
ledges and pick off anyone that came 
along. Although he knew that any of the 
Randall gang would skyline him and drop 
him merely on suspicion, it was not in his 
book to shoot a man down without giving 
him a chance. 

The man in the stone house below came 
out with a saddle on his shoulder. Pete 
watched the other saddle up and lead his 
horse out of the corral. Would he ride up 
or down the canyon? The noon sun was 
hammering hard on ledge and tree and 
boulder. A haze of heat hung in the air. Far 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



157 



below the man mounted and began to ride 
up the canyon trail. Pete drew back from 
the point of rocks where he had been sit- 
ting. A few yards north of him the trail 
crossed the timbered crest. 

SOMEWHERE in the brush a rattler 
buzzed. Through the still air came the 
distant click of hoofs. A little later Pete 
could hear the creak of a saddle. Soon 
he would be able to see the man who had 
more than roused his curiosity. Screened 
by a clump of brush, Pete stared at the 
trail. The head of a steel gray horse 
showed, then its shoulders and front. The 
polished butt of a carbine glittered in the 
hot light. Sharp, hard blue eyes looked 
out from beneath the curled brim of a tat- 
tered sombrero. Sallow faced, his mouth 
and chin half concealed by a stubbly black 
beard, the rider of the steel gray rested 
his mount for a few seconds. Already 
Young Pete had identified him as Harper, 
Ed Randall's right hand man. Black Joe 
Harper he was called. Appreciating the 
value of surprising a man from the rear, 
rather than from in front, Young Pete 
made no move until the outlaw had ridden 
past. "Harper!" he called sharply, expect- 
ing the outlaw to whirl and fire. To his 
surprise Harper coolly pulled up his horse 
and turning faced the man who had called 
to him. His hard blue eyes swept Young 
Pete from head to foot. "Hello, Tonto! 
What in hell are you doing up here?" 

"Lookin' for a couple of stray horses. 
Seen any?" 
"No." 

Pete stood with his hands touching the 
edges of his open vest. Slouched in the 
saddle, Harper looked as if he had no sus- 
picion whatever of The Tonto Kid's mis- 
sion. Yet he knew there was something 
wrong. After killing Bart Randall, Young 
Pete would hardly hide out in the Horse- 
thief Canyon country. "Looking for Ed 
Randall ?" asked the outlaw. 

"Yes." 

Harper bared his teeth in a grin. "He's 
10 



looking for you. Seems you and Bart 
had a little argument." 
"Seems we did." 

IITTLE by little Pete drew back the 
edge of his vest. Catching the glint 
of the deputy's star, the outlaw's expression 
changed. "So that's it?" With the first 
word Harper went for his gun. At the 
second word he fired. The third was not 
much more than a mumble. Whirling his 
horse he spurred over the crest. Save 
that he knew he was hit, and hit hard, 
Harper was hardly aware that The Tonto 
Kid had fired at all. 

Crashing down the hillside, wide of the 
trail, the outlaw's horse lunged and leaped, 
his rider rocking in the saddle. Young 
Pete didn't want to drop the horse. But 
it wouldn't do for Harper to get to his 
fellows and warn them. Half way down 




the mountainside as the horse swerved to 
avoid a boulder, the outlaw fell, and lay 
crumpled up in the low brush. 

For several minutes Young Pete stood 
watching the country below before he fi- 
nally climbed down to where the dead out- 
law lay. The shot had taken Harper in the 
pit of the stomach, paralyzed him. Had he 
been hit anywhere else except in the head 
or the heart, he would have kept on firing 
until either he or The Tonto Kid was 
down. 

Gouging a hollow in the hillside Young 
Pete covered the outlaw's body with rocks.' 
Far down the foothills Harper's horse was 
making for the spot where Pete's horses' 



158 



SHORT STORIES 



were staked. Fearing the gray would 
stampede them Pete lost no time in getting 
down to the valley. The steel gray broke 
for the brush-lined slope on the western 
hillside. Before Pete could saddle up and 
take after him, the horse had disappeared. 
Sooner or later some of the gang would 
run onto the gray, and look for Harper. 
"Had a hunch I ought to have dropped 
that horse," muttered Pete as he prepared 
to move camp. 

THE Hamills of Thunder Mountain 
claimed the land bordering the south 
side of Horsethief Canyon. A stranger 
trespassing on the property had to explain 
himself. While the Hamills would not 
bother a man hiding from the law, a peace 
officer was about as welcome in their terri- 
tory as a cloudburst. Once before Young 
Pete had had occasion to ride the Hamill 
range and had barely escaped with his life. 
Yet the south rim afforded the only look- 
out now that Harper had been killed. 

That evening Young Pete camped in the 
timber back from the south rim, his horses 
grazing in a grassy meadow a few yards 
beyond. In spite of the chance that the 
Hamills might discover him, the location 
had its advantages. From the canyon trail, 
far to the north, it would be difficult for 
anyone to identify him without a field glass, 
should any of the Randall gang happen to 
see him on the rim rock. In any event he 
was reasonably safe from an attack from 
the rear. Only because the gang respected 
the Hamill range were they tolerated in the 
neighborhood. 

That evening Young Pete sat near the 
edge of the rim watching the stone house. 
The horse left in the corral below moved 
about nervously, apparently suffering for 
water. As darkness settled, Young Pete 
turned in. He had been asleep several 
hours when he was awakened by moonlight 
on his face. Through the still, starlit air 
came the occasional click of a shod hoof. 
Walking to the canyon rim, Young Pete 
peered down into the wide, dusky hollow. 
Directly across the canyon, and some two 



hundred feet below a patch of moonlight 
lay like a silver pool on the trail. Above 
and below the moonlit spot the canyon was 
deep in shadow. Faint and muffled, came 
the sound of horses moving along the trail. 
His gaze fixed on the pool of moonlight, 
Young Pete waited and listened. A horse 
stumbled. The sound of a curse came 
clearly through the still air. Finally the 
head of a horse poked into the pool of 
moonlight, its rider's figure tiny but dis- 
tinct. Pete counted three horsemen. Some 
distance behind the others came a fourth, 
leading a horse with an empty saddle. A 
few minutes later a light showed dimly in 
the doorway of the stone house. The door 
closed. Four of the gang had assembled 
at headquarters. Pete wondered if Ed 
Randall was one of them, or if he had rid- 
den to town in search of the man who shot 
his brother. The outlaws had found and 
captured Harper's mount. Pete went back 
to his blankets. For a long time he lay 
awake trying to shape some kind of plan. 
He decided, finally, that all planning was 
out of his hands. He would simply have 
to stay in the Horsethief Canyon country 
and take it as it came. 

NEXT day, squatted near a tiny break- 
fast fire, Pete's gaze roved up and 
down the rimrock which ran like a clean- 
swept road in front of him. Just within 
the edge of the timber lay his blankets 
and saddle. A few yards farther back his 
horses grazed the circle of their stake ropes. 
The morning sun struck like slanting flame 
on the red bark of the big trees. In over- 
alls, shirt and vest, his hat off, Young 
Pete might have been some stray cowboy 
who had bushed out for the night. Appar- 
ently unconcerned as to his surroundings, 
nevertheless his eye was constantly alert. 
Although his movements as he made break- 
fast seemed natural to the task, they were 
as deliberate as if planned. Now he was 
facing the rim rock and the wide void of 
the canyon. Again as he shoved a bit 
of dry branch into the fire, he was facing 
the timberlands. His hat was off not by 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



159 



choice, but because its brim cut down his 
vision as he stooped above the fire. He 
hummed a tune, "Cowboy, What You 
Doin' Here?" That he had met and ex- 
terminated two of the Randall gang in the 
past few days did not bother him in the 
least. Had the shooting resulted from a 
private quarrel he would not have felt other 
than he did. The fact that he was a peace 
officer was secondary. In each instance 
his opponent had opened the fight. It was 
just as much his job to take care of him- 
self as it was to take care of his enemies. 

Glancing over the rim of his tin cup 
of coffee he saw a horseman coming 
through the timber. Pete ceased humming 
"Cowboy, What You Doin' Here?" Now 
he might have to answer the question. 
Black-bearded Judson Hamill, a Winches- 
ter across the saddle, was riding down the 
meadow where Pete's horses grazed. 
Young Pete's hand moved up under his 
vest. Unpinning the deputy's star he 
shoved it into his pocket. 

Judson Hamill had once witnessed a 
strange quarrel in which his brother had 
been shot and killed by The Tonto Kid. 
At the time, Judson Hamill's brother was 
a peace officer, and consequently, accord- 
ing to the Hamill creed, beyond their pro- 
tection. While no hand had been lifted 
against him as he rode from the scene 
of the shooting, Young Pete knew that 
hereafter the less he saw of the Hamills 
the better. Now he was camped on their 
range, grazing his horses in their meadows. 

CQUATTING by the fire, his coffee cup 
in his hand, Pete nodded as Hamill 
rode up. The tall, gaunt mountain man 
showed no surprise in finding The Tonto 
Kid camped on his land. Yet his deep 
set black eyes asked a question. Again 
Young Pete nodded. "Campin' for a 
couple of days to catch my breath." 

"Lost much breath lately?" 

"Some." He gestured toward the can- 
yon. "Them fellas over there got it." 

"I heard about that." Judson Hamill 
waved his hand toward Young Pete's 



horses. "Seems you had time to catch up 
a pack horse before you left." 

"Sure! I don't mind runnin' from a 
bunch, when it's necessary. But damned 
if I feel like starvin' to death." 

"I heard it was a deputy sheriff got 
Bart Randall." 

"So did I. But I don't believe every- 
thing telephoned on the wind." 

Hamill gestured toward his own domain. 
"The Randalls don't ride this country 
much." 

"That's why I'm here." 

"But if the Randall outfit should happen 
to be tracking down a peace officer, none 
of the Hamills will stop them." 

"Fair enough," said Pete. "If any peace 
officers show up, you can bet I won't be 
anywhere in sight." 

Judson Hamill stared hard at the youth 
squatting beside the fire. "Same if the 
Randalls were to show up?" 

"That would be different. I reckon 
they're out to get me. That will be my 
own private party." 

Saying nothing as to whether Young 
Pete could continue camping on his land 
or would have to move on, Judson Hamill 
reined round and rode back into the timber. 
Pete poured himself a second cup of coffee. 
Hamill, he was sure, would not inform the 
Randalls of his whereabouts. Whether or 
not the mountain man suspected him of 
being a peace officer, Young Pete was not 
so sure. Hamill was shrewd, and probably 
knew more about present circumstances 
than he seemed to know. Young Pete de- 
cided to stay where he was until some 
move of the outlaws forced him to another 
location. 

HE SPENT most of the day watching 
the stone house in the canyon. 
Meanwhile, one of the outlaws sat with 
a rifle on his knees guarding the canyon 
trail below. Men came out of the stone 
house, filled the trough at the corral, packed 
feed to the horses, and spent their time 
loafing. Toward evening the guard rose 
and stood looking down the canyon. A 



i6o 



SHORT STORIES 



half hour later, after answering a signal, 
a rider appeared. There were now five 
men at the outlaw headquarters, and eight 
horses in the corral. Without being able 
to identify the recent arrival, Pete sur- 
mised that it was Ed Randall. With their 
leader present the outlaws would doubtless 
make some new move, governed largely, 
Pete reasoned, by what their leader had 
been able to find out in town. Pete asked 
himself what effect Harper's disappearance 
would have. Would the gang take to 
tracking and finally locate his present camp, 
or would they ignore the mound of stones 
in the foothills and simply look out for 
themselves? 

Just before sundown two men came out 
of the stone house. One of them gestured 
across the canyon toward Young Pete's 
camp. The other raised his hands to his 
eyes. Pete caught the glint of field glass 
lenses. He could easily have lain back on 




the rim rock, out of sight. But as he had 
already planned a second big move in his 
campaign, he sat still. 

Before dark he made a fairly big fire 
on the rim, cooked supper, and packing 
hastily, struck west through the timber- 
land, Ins fire on the rim rock still bright 
in the night shadows. Reaching the crest 
of the range he dropped down the western 
slope, staked his pack horse, and rode 
round the head of the canyon to the north 
side. Some twenty or thirty yards back 
in the brush he dismounted and sat down, 
the reins in his hand. In the thin chill 
air he had no difficulty in keeping awake. 
Reasoning that the outlaws would investi- 
gate his camp on the opposite side of the 
canyon, Young Pete wore down the tedious 



hours waiting. About midnight he heard 
the unmistakable sound of hoofs. Dim in 
the moonlight, two riders passed on the 
trail below him, rounded the upper end 
of the canyon and disappeared in the tim- 
ber. When they reappeared on the rim 
rock near his camp he tied his horse in 
the brush. Taking off his boots Pete made 
his way down the trail. He had just 
reached the corral above the stone house 
when the door swung open and someone 
stepped out. Pete dropped in the shadow 
of the water trough. The horses snorted 
and circled. Pete held his breath. Cursing 
the horses, the man turned and walked 
back to the house. Rising, Pete let down 
the corral bars and waved his hat. With 
a rush and roar the horses stampeded 
down the canyon. 

"yOUNG PETE turned and ran. Be- 
hind him rose the sound of men rushing 
about, of voices sharp with surprise. The 
pool of moonlight through which the out- 
laws had passed on the preceding night at 
an earlier hour, had widened. As Young 
Pete sped through it a rifle barked. A slug 
whistled past his head and spattered on an 
angle of the canyon wall. Again the rifle 
barked, but Young Pete had rounded the 
bend in the trail. He slowed down to a 
steady trot. Leaving the trail he climbed 
through the brush to his horse, mounted 
and crossing the crest rode down into San 
Dimas Valley. Two of the outlaws were 
afoot. Six of the eight horses were loose, 
probably making for the desert below. It 
would take some time to catch them up. 
Pete's pack horse was staked on the San 
Dimas side of the range. Arriving at his 
camp, Young Pete moved both horses to 
another location and managed to get an 
hour's sleep before daybreak. 

That morning while he was watering his 
horses at the valley stream, a curl of smoke 
broke above the timber of the range. Fi- 
nally the smoke grew dense and black, 
bulging over the distant tree tops, and mov- 
ing slowly west in the light breeze. While 
safe enough in the valley, Young Pete was 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



161 



curious as to what might have caused the 
fire. Like most mountain men, the Hamills 
were careful about fire. The smoke came 
from somewhere in the neighborhood of 
their homestead. 

As Pete watched, a band of horses broke 
across the distant crest of the range and 
rocketed down into the valley. Too far 
away to read the brand, he surmised they 
were Hamill stock. The smoke seemed to 
grow less dense, finally subsiding to a thin 
yellow haze. Aware that in the valley he 
might be spotted from some crag or ridge, 
he had already decided to take to the high 
trails, circle the Hamill homestead and 
make his way back to the south rim of 
the canyon opposite the stone house. Only 
by constantly moving camp could he hope 
to keep from being ambushed. By this 
time the Randall gang would be only too 
well aware that someone was after them. 
It was a case of keeping out of their way, 
and in their way until he either wore them 
down, or they got him. 

REASONING that it was his last 
chance to make good, to come clear 
of the law and settle down to some quiet 
occupation, Young Pete went at his job 
with the calculating mind of an accom- 
plished chess player. He knew the game 
from both sides, and knew the odds against 
him. One mistake would probably end 
the game. And he didn't intend to make it. 

His next move was apparently irrelevant, 
yet he had his reason for it. Riding down 
the valley to where the stampeded horses 
had crossed, he back-tracked them up the 
eastern slope. The smell of smoke came 
to him as he topped the crest. Films of 
ash drifted down through the trees. Alert 
for a surprise, he rode slowly through the 
timberland. When he came within sight 
of the Hamill homestead, set in a wide, 
grassy clearing, he pulled up and sat his 
horse, wondering how it had happened. 
The big log cabin, the sheds and outbuild- 
ings were burned to the ground. Tiny 
flames still played about the fallen timbers. 
Flecks of ash floated in the air. A breeze 

10 



ruffled the tree tops. The yellow haze 
cleared. The bars of the big corral, which 
had escaped the flames, were down. A 
man lay near the charred logs that had 
been the cabin. Still fearing some kind 
of a trap, Young Pete sat his horse watch- 
ing. The man's hand moved as if signal- 
ing for help. Slowly Pete pulled his car- 
bine from the scabbard. Slowly he rode 
forward, watching the timber edging the 
clearing. Within a few feet of the pros- 
trate figure he reined up. The man on the 
ground was Judson Hamill. He raised on 
his elbow, tried to speak. His black beard 
twitched and his head fell back. 

The mountain man's Winchester lay near 
him. Round about were scattered eight 
or ten empty shells. Tracks of plunging 
hoofs showed in the earth in front of the 
charred cabin. More empty shells glit- 
tered in the sunlight. Near the log stable 
Pete found the bullet riddled body of Jud- 
son Hamill's brother. Both the Hamills 
had died fighting. 

TJETE tried to picture the fight — Jud- 
•*• son Hamill and his brother surprised 
by two mounted men, who according to 
the tracks near the cabin had not dis- 
mounted; an argument of some kind, and 
a battle. That the corralled horses had been 
turned loose after the Hamills had been 
shot down, was plainly evident. But why 
had they been turned loose? The earth 
round the corral gate was so heavily 
tracked that it told no special story. But 
out in the clearing Pete discovered that 
the mounted men had departed with two 
led horses. Keeping within the timber, 
Young Pete followed their trail out to the 
rim of the canyon. Too far back from 
the rim to see the stone house, he could 
see the upper end of the canyon trail as 
it neared the crest. Nothing showed on 
the trail. About to turn back, he glanced 
up and down the stretch of rim rock in 
front of him. The glint of a saddle gun 
caught his eye. Pete was puzzled. No 
one riding that country would leave a rifle 



1 62 



SHORT STORIES 



behind unless there was a mighty good rea- 
son to do so. 

Still keeping within the timber he rode 
west until almost opposite the carbine on 
the rim rock. Huddled at the base of a 
big pine, lay Sarg, the railroad man who 
had joined the wild bunch. Wounded in 
the fight with the Hamills he had fallen 
from the saddle, dropped his carbine, and 
had then crawled to the timber. And there 
his companion, whoever he might have 
been, had left him. 

Bending over the wounded man, Young 
Pete saw that he had been shot through 
the chest twice. He was unconscious and 
could not last long. 

BART RANDALL, Harper, Sarg and 
the man wounded in the raid were 
out of it. Still remained four of the gang 
to be accounted for. Riding back to the 
Hamill homestead Young Pete dug a 
trench near the charred logs. He buried 
Judson Hamill and his brother. He 
worked fast, never taking it for granted 
that the Randall gang would not return 
to the clearing. An hour later he was back 
on the south rim of the canyon, near the 
spot where Sarg's carbine lay. Absorbed 
in watching the stone house, Young Pete 
was startled by a shuffling sound. Whirl- 
ing, he saw a figure staggering toward 
him. It was Sarg, hands outstretched as 
though feeling his way in the dark. Shot 
through the body, and dying on his feet, 
he was evidently unaware of anyone near 
him. "Water," he gasped tonelessly. 
"Water." 

Young Pete stepped to his horse and 
unslung his canteen. "Here you are, 
Sarg," he said, unscrewing the canteen cap. 
But the wounded outlaw did not seem to 
either see or hear. Slowly he lurched past 
Young Pete, groping blindly in the sun- 
light. 

"Hold on!" cried Pete as Sarg kept on. 
"Sarg !" he called sharply. Standing within 
a few feet of the canyon rim, the outlaw 
hesitated, as if about to turn. Pete 
jumped forward, grasped his arm. Sarg 



jerked free. "Water," he mumbled, as he 
lurched forward and toppled into the chasm 
below. 

For a moment Young Pete stood as 
though paralyzed. The flicker of a lizard 
across the rim rock brought him back to 
himself. Picking up Sarg's carbine he ex- 
amined the magazine. It was empty. Re- 
calling how it had been emptied, he hurled 
the carbine out into space. 

A few minutes later he saw four men 
leave the stone house across the canyon 
and ride toward the crest. Evidently the 
gang was heading for San Dimas Valley, 
possibly leaving the country. Once below 
the border it would take months of trailing 
to locate them. Mounting, Young Pete 
cut through the timberland, passed the 
Hamill clearing and nearing the ridge trail 
of the range, waited to see if the outlaws 
would come along the ridge or ride the 
valley trail below. For an hour he watched 
and waited, unaware that the gang had 
crossed the San Dimas Valley and had rid- 
den up the opposite slope, instead of head- 
ing either north or south. Finally Young 
Pete rode down to where he had left his 
pack horse. Stake rope, pack horse and 
provisions were gone. 

Where they had gone was not difficult 
to determine. The tracks near the river 
bed showed where five animals had crossed 
the stream, three shod horses and two un- 
shod. "Got my eyes left, anyhow," mut- 
tered Pete as he began to trail the horses 
up the western slope of the San Dimas. 

TO BE out of provisions and blankets, 
and riding an uninhabited country was 
no new experience to The Tonto Kid. He 
had a good horse under him, and arms 
and ammunition. He also had papers and 
tobacco. Heretofore he had not dared 
smoke. Now he curled a cigarette, and 
with his gaze on the brush-covered hillside 
before him, followed the plain trail of the 
five horses, three shod, two unshod. The 
unshod horses, he reasoned, had belonged 
to the Hamills. No doubt the Randall 
gang would tack shoes on them the first 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



163 



chance they got. They would have to if 
they expected the Hamill mounts to last 
long in the desert country. 

About an hour later Young Pete reached 
the crest of the range. He was not sur- 
prised to see, far out in the desert below, 
a cavalcade making for the town of Car- 
melita, an outpost on the edge of the Bad 
Lands. Carmelita was populated largely 
by Mexicans. Brinkley, an ex-cattleman, 
ran the general store. He had a hard 
name. The kind of man, reasoned Pete, 
who for policy alone would be friendly 
toward the Randall outfit. With a de- 
cidedly unfavorable prospect before him, 
Pete rode down the western slope. But 
not as a peace officer. Half way down 
the slope he unfastened his deputy star 
and shied it into the brush. "This here," 
he told his horse, "is what Slim would 
call a strictly personal matter. Somehow, 
I kinda like it better that way." 

Fading sunlight lay on the low adobes, 
the littered streets, and the weathered gen- 
eral store of Carmelita. Round about 




spread the desert, stripped of greasewood 
near the town, criss-crossed by goat trails 
and meandering wagon roads. Shiftless- 
ness and poverty were as apparent as 
though printed on a signboard. Mongrels 
of all sizes lay in the dust of the main 
street, or against the crumbling adobe 
walls. From a desert well, not much more 
than a square hole in the ground, planked 
on the sides, the natives drew their supply 
of water and carried it to their homes. 
Adjoining the store stood a squat adobe 
with a blue door — the saloon. Storekeeper 
Brinkley's partner ran the saloon. An oc- 



casional freighter hauled supplies through 
Carmelita to the distant coWtown of Rod- 
ney. An occasional buckboard passed 
through the town, and once in a while a 
cowhand. Otherwise Carmelita was as iso- 
lated as a pinnacle in the Bad Lands. 

FAR out on the desert Young Pete 
waited until dark before approaching 
the town. He smoked to dull his hunger, 
and to amuse himself, talked to his pony. 
"Long haul and no grass, eh Buck? Mebby 
so you'll have to eat frijoles when we hit 
Carmelita. But you'll eat. I said it. 

"Mebby so the Randall bunch kept right 
on goin'. That would be bad." 

Buck mouthed his bit. He wanted 
water. 

"If they're bushin' in town tonight, one 
of 'em will be watchin' the back trail. 
What do you say if we was to ride round 
and come into town from the west. Think 
that would be healthier?" 

To the stout little buckskin it didn't mat- 
ter. All he knew was that he was hungry 
and needed water. He could see no reason 
for standing there in the sunset shadows, 
his rider sitting at his feet smoking a ciga- 
rette. 

"They got our pack horse, and some 
grub," Young Pete nodded toward the dis- 
tant town. "That pack horse belongs to 
Buck Yardlaw. We got to do somethin' 
about it. Chucked my badge in the brush 
myself. All they got to do now is to get 
you," he looked up at the pony, "and my 
gun, and I'll be all washed up and ready 
for buryin'." 

Pete caught himself thinking of Judson 
Hamill and his brother, of Harper and 
Sarg, and Horsethief Canyon. A man 
didn't last too long riding the high trails. 
He himself had been lucky. He had taken 
about every chance a man could take, and 
aside from having been wounded in two 
gun fights, had come through without a 
scratch. Sometimes it happened that way. 
But not often. 

There were four of the Randall gang 
still going: Ed Randall, Lindquist the 



SHORT STORIES 



Pecos cowboy, Stevens and White Eye 
Johnson. The outlaw wounded in the re- 
cent raid was, according to eye witnesses 
of the fight, Bill Page. His body lay at 
the bottom of Horsethief Canyon. Young 
Pete glanced toward the distant desert 
town, a vague outline in the gathering 
darkness. "White Eye Johnson and Ed 
Randall — I'd like to take 'em in and turn 
'em over to Yardlaw. But shucks! Buck 
himself would have to knock 'em out and 
rope 'em to a buckboard and freight 'em 
in. And I ain't got a buckboard." 

If he were lucky enough to clean up the 
gang, what proof, thought Pete, would the 
governor have that the Randall bunch was 
wiped out? None, except his word. Of 
course time would tell the story. But a 
whole lot could happen before folks finally 
realized that the Randall gang was actually 
out of existence. 

PETE rose and gathering the reins, 
mounted. "We got to do this job 
quick. That's all. Tryin' to put 'em under 
arrest would be a joke. And the joke 
would be on me." 

The Tonto Kid saw no romance in his 
work, no glory if he cleaned up the gang. 
It was simply a job, like roping out salty 
broncs and riding them. It was his own 
fault if he got piled. 

The desert stars shone high and clear 
when Young Pete stepped from his horse 
and led him up to the first adobe on the 
west side of Carmelita. A few houses down 
the street several horses stood tied to a 
hitch rail. With one exception the horses 
were saddled. The exception was Pete's 
pack horse. They belonged to strangers 
in town, he learned. The young Mexican 
girl he talked with laughed in the starlight. 
"You also are a stranger, no?" 

Swarthy, black-haired, and speaking 
Mexican like a native, he could easily have 
passed as one of her country. "Yes, I'm 
a stranger. Got lost, out yonder. Saw 
this town and rode in. If I could get 
something to eat, and some water and feed 
for my horse — " Pete took some silver 



from his pocket — "perhaps you could help 
me?" 

"But there is the store. And there is 
water at the well." 

"I know. But I can't go in the store. 
Those fellows," Pete lowered his voice, 
"are after me." 

For a moment the girl studied Pete's 
face. "I will get food for you. But from 
my father's house, not from the store. The 
men in the store are bad men. They 
would talk to me. I am pretty, am I 
not?" 

"Pretty as a speckled pup under a yel- 
low wagon," blurted Pete. "But you don't 
savvy American talk. Like a rose," he 
added in Spanish. 

"I will bring the food and the water, 
and no one shall see me." 

Pete gestured. "I'll be waiting — out 
yonder." 

IT WAS a long chance, and Pete had 
to take it. Carmelita was so small a 
town that should he appear on the street, 
his presence would soon be remarked. If 
the Mexican girl didn't talk, he would be 
safe for the present. If the girl talked — 
well, the buckskin pony would have an- 
other long trip without food or water. 

The girl came stealthily through the 
shadows. She gave Young Pete some food. 
She had filled his canteen at the well. 
"The men in the store want shoes for their 
horses," she told him in Spanish. "There 
are no shoes. They have sent for my 
father who does the work of a blacksmith. 
They have told him he must make shoes. 
But he has not the iron. These men from 
the San Dimas country do not speak with 
reason. They are drunk." 

"That's good," said Young Pete laconic- 
ally. 

"But it is not good ! My father is afraid 
of these men." 

"Kind of scared of 'em myself," said 
Pete smiling. "Suppose you go back to 
your house and forget all about me. Here's 
something to buy you a new dress with." 

The girl took the money, two dollars s 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



165 



which to her was a fortune. Young Pete 
seemed like a being sent by the saints — 
one who gave much money, yet asked 
nothing. For a moment she hesitated, gaz- 
ing at the dark young stranger. "Is that 
all I may do for you?" she said finally. 

Pete grinned. "You might give me a 
kiss. But I'm not beggin' you for it." 

The girl was gone. Pete brushed his 
lips with the back of his hand. Taking 
the reins he led his thirsty pony round 
to the well back of the store. From down 
the desert came the rumbling and clack 
of a freighter's wagon. In Brinkley's store 
there was loud talking and an occasional 
burst of harsh laughter. Pete's pony 
raised a dripping muzzle and gazed toward 
the approaching wagon. The freighter 
would have supplies for the cowtown of 
Rodney. As there was no water between 
Carmelita and Rodney, he would make 
camp in Carmelita. Chances were he would 
have a supply of blacksmith's iron and 
horseshoes. The gang could now get their 
horses shod without any difficulty. The 
wagon was still several hundred yards east 
of town. Someone in the gang would soon 
step out to see who was coming. Young 
Pete mounted and rode toward the oncom- 
ing wagon. 

JUST outside Carmelita he hailed the 
teamster. "Got any corn or anything 
a fella could use for horse feed?" 

The man on the high seat nodded. 
"Don't figure to unload till I get in," he 
mumbled. 

Young Pete's pulse quickened. There 
was something slightly familiar about the 
teamster's manner and his voice. Pete 
hated to be taken by surprise. "Suppose 
you quit chewin' tobacco and talk human," 
he blurted. 

The teamster laughed. "So they didn't 
get you after all?" 

"Not me. What in hell you doin' up in 
this country, Buck?" 

"Freighting." 

"Been doin' some trackin' too, I reckon." 
"Some." 

10 



"Where's the regular freighter?" 

"At Big South Bend. He'll wait till 
he hears from me." 

Young Pete was regaining his poise. 
His old enemy, Sheriff Buck Yardlaw, evi- 
dently had trailed him to the Horsethief 
Canyon country, read sign to advantage 
and was now for some very good reason 
playing the part of a freighter. Surmising 
that Yardlaw was also out to clean up the 
Randall gang, on old scores, he said so. 

Yardlaw shook his head. "That's your 
job. I'm after the men who murdered 
Jud Hamill and his brother." 

Pete gestured toward Carmelita. "You'll 
find one of 'em yonder. The other, he's 
at the bottom of Horsethief Canyon." 

"How many in this bunch?" 

"Four. As I figure it, they are Ed 
Randall, Lindquist, White Eye, and Rud 
Stevens." 

"Looks like you been busy." 

"I had luck." 

The tired horses fretted to get to water. 
"I'm camping at the well," said Yardlaw. 
"Mebby I could help you unhitch." 
"Mebby you could." 

"I'll ride round and meet you," said 
Pete. "The gang are short on horseshoes. 
They'll be askin' you for some." 

THE arrival of the freight wagon 
aroused no suspicion among the gang. 
White Eye Johnson came out of the store 
and asked the teamster if he had any horse- 
shoes, and when he would be pulling out 
in the morning. The teamster replied that 
he had shoes, that he would not pull out 
until late in the morning, as he had to 
repair the wagon reach before starting. 
White Eye went back into the store. 

Unhitched, the eight horses stood tied 
to the feed trailer. Young Pete, on foot, 
stood near Yardlaw. Solid as a rock, the 
big sheriff gazed at The Tonto Kid for 
a moment. "Got plenty?" 
"Shells? Yes." 

"Want to go after 'em now — or wait 
till morning?" 



i66 



SHORT STORIES 



"I been thinkin' about that. You flip 
a coin." 

Pete called heads, struck a match and 
gazed at the coin in Yardlaw's hand. "All 
right, Buck. I had a hunch somethin' was 
on for tonight. Ed Randall is the fastest 
gun. White Eye ain't slow, so I've heard. 
Let's get busy." 

BEFORE entering Brinkley's store, 
Yardlaw and Young Pete carefully 
and noiselessly braced a stout post against 
the rear door, so that no one could leave 
the building at that end. Just before they 
came round to the front Young Pete took 
off his sombrero and hung it on a fence 
post. He might need it again, and he 
might not. Gray with alkali, gaunt and 
tall, Yardlaw strode round to the front of 
the building, Young Pete beside him. It 
was a warm night. The store door was 
open. Together they stepped in. "I hear 
somebody wants to see me," said Yard- 
law. 

Young Pete's eye traveled round the 
room. Ed Randall, leader of the outlaws, 
was sitting sideways on the counter talking 
with the storekeeper, Brinkley. White 
Eye Johnson sat astraddle of a chair facing 
the doorway. Stevens and Lindquist, a 
bottle between them, stood near the lower 
end of the counter. 

"Where's Jamison?" said the storekeeper 
quickly, naming the regular freighter. 

"Resting up at Big South Bend." Yard- 
law answered Brinkley, but he kept his 
eyes on Ed Randall. 

Lindquist and Stevens set their glasses 
down. Young Pete saw that Randall had 
recognized him, yet Pete was watching 
White Eye Johnson's hands. 

"How many shoes do you want?" Yard- 
law's question seemed filled with a double 
meaning. "Cold shoes, you said." 

"I can use about eight," said Randall 
easily. At any minute the tension would 
break, and the outlaws would go into ac- 
tion. Young Pete, whose unspoken motto 
was The Sooner The Better, laughed. 



"Eight shoes would be four too many if 
you're lookin' for luck." 

For once in his life, Ed Randall seemed 
to be stricken with sort of paralysis. Had 
either Yardlaw or The Tonto Kid shown 
up alone, it is possible the outlaw would 
have gone for his gun the minute he saw 
them. Yardlaw took a step toward him. 
Still no one in the room made a move. 
Another step, and Yardlaw swung his som- 
brero and slapped Randall in the face. 
Young Pete heard the crash of their guns. 




His own hand was up and busy. Twice he 
fired. White Eye Johnson sagged along 
the counter, grasped it and sank to his 
knees. Lindquist turned and dashed for 
the rear door. But his companion Stevens 
had his gun out and going. One of his 
shots struck Yardlaw, who flinched, and 
then walked slowly toward him, firing as 
he came. Brinkley, dropping behind the 
counter, fired through it. As the splinters 
sprang up round the hole, Young Pete 
threw a shot which bored another hole 
within an inch of it. Pete's gun was empty, 
and Stevens, though hit hard, was still 
firing. Suddenly Yardlaw dropped his 
own gun and collapsed. Young Pete dove 
for it and came up. Twice it flashed. 
Stevens staggered toward the front door 
and fell across the threshold. 

Lindquist, the Pecos cowboy, stood with 
his hands in the air. Young Pete walked 
up to him, took his gun, and jerking it 
up knocked him down and out. Smoke 
hung in a blue haze round the two ceiling 
lamps. Out in the street a dog howled. 
Pete walked round the counter. "Come 
on out and show yourself," he called. But 

10 



HEADING SOUTH 



167 



Brinkley, drilled through the stomach, was 
unable to move. 

BOLTING the front door, Young Pete 
raised Yardlaw's head. The sheriff 
had been hit twice, but it was the slug 
that plowed through his scalp that had 
downed him. The wound in his shoulder 
was high, and not serious. 

The storekeeper died before sunrise. 
Randall, White Eye Johnson and Stevens 
had been killed in the fight. Lindquist, 
the Pecos cowboy, was the only one to 
escape being hit. He lay hogtied in the 
room back of the main store. 

Two days Young Pete stayed in Car- 
melita. The third day following the fight, 
Yardlaw was able to travel. Mounted on 
the pick of the outlaws' horses the sheriff 
and Young Pete headed for San Dimas 
Valley, Lindquist handcuffed, riding a few 
yards ahead. Asked why he had not put 
the outlaw out of business during the fight, 
Young Pete replied that Lindquist was the 
only member of the gang alive, and the 
only witness, aside from himself, that could 
prove the rest of the gang had been exter- 
minated. "It ain't as if I was a peace offi- 
cer," said Pete. "I chucked my star before I 
hit Carmelita. Them fellas stole one of my 
horses. That was plenty excuse for me." 

"So you figured Lindquist will turn 
state's evidence?" 

"Figured he was the yellowest dog in 
the bunch. He'll talk. Then the governor 
will know I played my hand like I said 
I would." 

WHILE crossing San Dimas Valley, 
Young Pete rode aside long enough 
to look at the mound of stone underneath 
which lay the body of Black Joe Harper. 
To Pete's surprise he found a roughly 
hewn headboard and on it penciled "The 
Tonto Kid." He surmised that Yardlaw 
had found the grave and had se marked it. 
Pete recalled Yardlaw's "So they didn't 
get you after all?" He rode back to where 
the sheriff waited. 

"Buck," Pete hesitated and glanced away, 



"we been gunnin' for each other for quite 
a spell." 

This was no news to Yardlaw, but that 
Young Pete should mention it, seemed 
strange. The sheriff nodded. 

"I just took a look at that headboard 
where Joe Harper is planted. It wasn't 
there when I planted him. I notice it's got 
my name on it." 

"Somebody made a mistake." 

"Mebby." Young Pete looked the sheriff 
in the eye. "I never reckoned you would 
take that kind of trouble for me." 

"Hell, Pete! I said somebody made a 
mistake." 

"Somebody. Buck Yardlaw, mebby. 
Thought the gang had got me, so he does 
some fancy carvin', for a friend." 

"For a friend who did some fancy shoot- 
ing when I was down and the guns still 
going." 

"But that headboard was there before 
the shootin' started. What I mean, I ain't 
no more peace officer than a coyote. It 
ain't my game. Now I figure you're feelin' 
healthy enough to take Lindquist on in, 
and pry some talk out of him. If the 
governor wants to make out that pardon, 
tell him to hand it to Slim Akers — and 
Slim will send it to me." 

"Scared to ride back to the capital?" 

Young Pete's face went red. "Yes. I'm 
scared. Scared of myself. Not that I'd 
be lookin' for trouble. But some other 
folks might. And there's only one way 
of settlin' them kind." 

Sheriff Yardlaw thought he understood. 
Perhaps it would be just as well if The 
Tonto Kid kept out of sight for a year 
or two. The sheriff thrust out his hand. 
Young Pete seized it, and turned away. 
"So long, Buck." Pete grinned. "Tell 
Slim for me, to go to hell, and I'll meet 
him there, one of these days." Pete reined 
his horse round. The Pecos cowboy, 
Lindquist, stared at him. 

"Heading south?" said Yardlaw as Pete 
rode down the valley. 

Young Pete turned and nodded. "Head- 
in' South." 




ellers Circle 



The Tonto Kid 

THE TONTO KID, Henry Herbert 
Knibbs' young outlaw — who has been 
appearing in Short Stories for some 
years — is a great favorite with our readers 
and we have received quite a few letters 
asking about the beginnings of this young- 
ster who plays on both sides of the law. 
Mr. Knibbs writes us that : 

"No one ever knew The Tonto Kid's 
real name. 

"Following a flood in the Texas pan- 
handle, some searchers found a washtub 
in the fork of a cottonwood, left there by 
the flood. In the tub was an old army 
overcoat wrapped round something. The 
something was discovered to be a baby of 
a few months, the sole survivor of the 
family of ranchers whose bodies were found 
miles from the homestead. The men who 
discovered the orphan all had large families 
of children. No one wanted the baby in 
the washtub, so the discoverers drew lots 
to see who should have to adopt it. 

"The foundling was a male and was 
named Pete by the rancher who took it 
home. When Pete grew big enough to un- 
latch a gate he was put to work. Like all 
youngsters in that section he learned to ride 
at an early age. He knew no kindness 
from either of his foster parents. His only 
friend was his foster sister, a child of about 
his own age. About all he knew was hard 



work and frequent beatings. One day, 
when Pete was about thirteen years of age, 
his foster-father came home drunk. Pete's 
foster sister happened to get in her father's 
way. He knocked her down. Enraged by 
this brutality, and doubtless influenced un- 
consciously by an accumulated hatred for 
his foster father, Pete grabbed the latter's 
gun from the holster and shot him. 
Mounted on the horse his foster father 
had ridden from town Pete headed north 
in a hurry. Independent and resourceful 
he managed to survive the hardships of his 
flight, and arriving in Arizona met with 
a band of cattle and horse thieves who gave 
him a place by their fire and virtually 
adopted him. He became horse boy and 
errand boy for the gang. At first he was 
not aware of their thieving, but thought 
them cattlemen. By the time he had found 
out their real methods he had become so 
accustomed to their way of living that he 
decided to stay with them. Among the 
gang, long since wiped out by peace officers 
and personal quarrels, was a man Young 
Pete admired. His name was Tonto Char- 
ley. Tonto was the wildest of the gang, 
fast with a gun, reckless when drunk, but 
always kind to Young Pete. When about 
fifteen years of age, considering himself a 
man grown, Pete became involved in a 
quarrel among the gang, who, finding them- 
selves hard pressed for recent cattle steal- 
ing, decided to rob a train, divide the loot 
and each go his own way. Camped in the 
168 10 



THE STORY TELLERS' CIRCLE 



neighborhood of old Fort Apache the gang 
discussed plans for the train robbery. 
Tonto Charley refused to have anything 
to do with the scheme. The gang quar- 
reled. The quarrel ended in a gun fight. 
Young Pete had never been taken seriously 
by the gang. Aware that Tonto had been 
drawn into the quarrel as an excuse to kill 
him, Young Pete watched the man who 
had threatened to get Tonto. When the 
shooting began Young Pete took a hand. 
His unexpected assistance in Tonto Char- 
ley's fight, saved Tonto's life. Together 
they made a getaway, finally arriving in 
Socorro, on the river. Here Tonto got 
drunk with an old companion, a Mexican 
he had known in years past. 

"Talking over old times and old feuds, 
the two finally decided on a little private 
war with some Magdalena cattlemen whom 
they had reason to hate. Young Pete was 
against the idea and tried to reason with 
Tonto. But Tonto, always a fool when 
drunk wouldn't listen to reason. In the 
saloon fight which followed Tonto was 
badly wounded, but made his getaway, 
Young Pete riding with him. A posse was 
organized. Across the river and north of 
Socorro Tonto Charley and Pete rode the 
empty country between Socorro and Albu- 
querque. Finally Tonto, who was hit hard, 
gave out. Pete's horse, stepping in a 
gopher hole had broken its leg. Knowing 
they would be followed they took refuge 
in a shallow draw. Tonto Charley was all 
but helpless. Both he and Pete knew he 
couldn't live long. Tonto told Pete to go 
to the edge of the draw and look at their 
back trail. He returned saying there was 
no one in sight yet. Tonto Charley told 
Pete not to get smart with him, that he 
had stayed too long looking at the back 
trail. Pete tried to make Charley believe 
there was no posse in sight, but he couldn't 
fool his friend. Tonto told him to take 
his horse and get out of there. Pete re- 
fused to go. Finally the wounded man 
asked Young Pete to look again and see 
how near their pursuers were. While 
Pete was looking he heard Tonto say, 'So 

10 



long, kid.' Pete turned in time to see 
Tonto, who might have lived an hour or 
two longer, draw his gun and kill himself. 

"Young Pete, on Charley's big iron gray 
horse, managed to evade the posse, who, 
finding Tonto with a hole through his chest 
and another in his forehead, reasoned that 
Young Pete had killed the wounded man 
to get his horse. That was the beginning 
of Young Pete's hard reputation. 

"Drifting over into New Mexico he be- 
came involved in a war between the authori- 
ties and a gang holding out in Horsethief 
Canyon. At fifteen years of age he had 
become outlaw. Often during the years 
following he tried to ride a straight trail. 
But luck was against him. He had earned 
a hard reputation. His escapades were 
elaborated until he became known as The 
Tonto Kid, a killer feared and hated by 
those who didn't know him, but liked by 
his friends, and respected for his ability 
by more than one peace officer. He ranged 
from Mexico to the Canadian border, work- 
ing at times, gambling, seldom in one place 
long. Eventually he met with a card man 
known as Slim Akers. The two made 
themselves known in Arizona, New Mex- 
ico and Sonora, were captured, managed to 
escape, and finally decided to leave the 
country and make a fresh start. Often 
they were obliged to follow separate trails, 
but always they came together again. Their, 
plan to reach the Argentine was frus- 
trated. Becoming tired of being constantly 
on the move, they decided to appeal to the 
governor for a pardon. What success they 
had is told in the story entitled 'Heading 
South.' 

"This is a brief and rather hasty sketch 
of The Tonto Kid. His adventures have 
been told in a series of stories during the 
past five or six years. All but one of these 
stories appeared in Short Stories, which 
has done so much toward making Young 
Pete known to present day folk. Naturally 
many of the names used are not those of 
the folk they represent. And many of the 
place names have been changed. 

"Henry H. Knibbs" 



In the next issue SHORT STORIES for Nov. 25th 




WAR OF THE BRANDING IRON 

A Complete Novel — completely full of range 
action and quick triggers and 
riders by night 

Charles W. Tyler 




Also 

A ''Major" novelette by 

L. PATRICK GREENE 

Part II of "The Devil's Bosun" by 
H. BEDFORD-JONES 



DOUGLAS LEACH, F. R. FIERCE, 
DONALD BARR CHIDSEY, B. E. COOK, 

etc., etc., etc. 

' : ; ' ; jy _ - - - - - . ... i . 



THE STORY TELLERS' CIRCLE 



171 



A Student of Voodoo 

rHE BLACK GOD in this issue is 
David Owen Daher's first story in 
Short Stories, and it is a novel, at that. 
Pretty good for a start! Mr. Daher says 
in a recent letter: 

"As for the background of 'The Black 
God' — I'm quite a student of native voodoos 
and superstitions and feel I know quite a 
bit about witchcraft, especially as applied 
to the African negro. I've trekked through 
Kenya — though it was a few years ago; 
three I think — and am quite familiar with 
Nairobi and Kisumu. Believe me the Dark 
Continent intrigues me and I think I have 
material enough for at least one more 
witchcraft novelette in which I hope to keep 
Jimmy Arnold as my central figure. Ac- 
tually, my life should fit me more for 
writing Westerns as I spent a few years 
riding the range up in Alberta, but my real 
love is the general adventure story. 

" 'The Black God' as a story is, in the 
main, the natural result of a knowledge 
of Kenya Colony and the superstitions that 
make government such a difficult thing — 
not so much so now as when I was there, 
I understand — and a fertile imagination. 
Some of the characters were suggested by 
men I knew in Kenya, such as the good 
Father and the English commissioner, but 



Arnold is a fictitious character in the en- 
tirety. 

"David Owen Daher" 

A Pirate Queen 

HT1HE DEVIL'S BOSUN of H. Bed- 
* ford-Jones serial which begins in this 
issue was a super-pirate if ever there was 
one, even in those seas swarming with out- 
laws of many nations, and it is an interest- 
ing fact that the world's only woman 
buccaneer is a Chinese. Her name is 
Madame Lai Choi San. Described as a 
fair-looking lady about forty years old, 
Madame San, with a fleet of armor-plated, 
swift-sailing junks, manned by no fewer 
than 500 cut-throats, William P. Schramm 
writes us is holding her own against the 
competition of hundreds of other Chinese 
pirates who infest China's coastal waters 
from Shanghai to French Indo-China. For 
years this pirate queen has been a Mystery 
Woman to the Far East. To date she has 
been seen by only one white man, a nervy 
newspaper correspondent, who placed his 
life at stake to get an interview with her. 
After spending weeks in Chinese coast vil- 
lages to learn her whereabouts and days in 
negotiating, the correspondent obtained 
permission to come on board the lady's 
flagship. He was allowed to remain on 
board several days as a paying guest, this 
at $45 a day ! 



READERS' CHOICE COUPON 

"Readers' Choice" Editor, Short Stories: 
Garden City, N. Y. 

My choice of the stories in this number is as follows : 

1 3 

2 4 

5 

I do not like : 

Why ? 

Name__ Address 



10 



172 



SHORT STORIES 



It was learned that Madame San was the 
daughter of a powerful buccaneer captain, 
who one day passed into Davy Jones' locker 
"with his slippers on" in a skirmish with 
a gunboat, whereupon the daughter had 
fallen heir to her parent's fleet of junks 
and set to following in his footsteps. 

Through her piracies Madame San had 
become a millionaire, and as such she was 
found living a life of luxurious ease on her 
flagship, the decks of which bristled with 
ancient muzzle-loading cannons of all sizes. 
When not actively engaged in piracy, she 
spent her time in a lounge chair on the aft 
deck, attended by two valets who continu- 
ally combed her long black hair. She dis- 
dained speaking to any one of the crew 
except the captain. In addition to raids 
on vessels and occasionally kidnapping a 
wealthy Chinaman and holding him for ran- 
som, the lady carries on a lucrative side- 
business in levying moneyed tribute on the 
hundreds of fishing junks of her fellow 
countrymen who ply their trade in the 
waters where she reigns. When she began 
buccaneering with her inherited fleet, other 
pirates attempted to drive her from her 
territory, but the Madame readily managed 
to hold her own against all comers. Today, 
being well aware of her powers as a pirate 
queen, other ruffians give her territory a 
wide berth. 



Martin Bomber Makes Three 
Worlds Records 

TT.S.AIR SERVICES MAGAZINE 
i~y reports that Brig. Gen. Frank M. 
Andrews recently hurled his Martin B-12 



Animals Eat Railroad Track 

THE railroaders of Dimne Hopkins' 
Badland Meet in this issue faced 
some tough problems, but back in 1873, 
animals actually ate part of the track of a 
railroad in the state of Washington ! 

One of the pioneer railroads of that state 
was built from Walla Walla to Wallula. It 
was a narrow-gauge line, and the whole 
thing was made of wood. Even the rails 
were hewn out of fir trees, and were about 
four by six inches in size. However, it 
was much better than the old horse-drawn 
stage coaches, and for a time everything 
was splendid. Then the rails began to 
splinter and go to pieces. The cost of steel 
rails prohibited the buying of them, so the 
owners replaced the worn-out track with 
rails covered with the hides of animals. 
Surprisingly, these were quite successful — 
for a time. Later, though, all the carnivor- 
ous animals in that section began lunching 
off the hides on the rails. With spring, 
only the well-chewed wooden strips re- 
mained. This time the company cheated 
the animals by using strap iron as a cover- 
ing. Within a few years the road had made 
enough money to put down steel rails, and 
finally was taken over by the Oregon Rail- 
road and Navigation Company in the early 
part of the eighties. 




bombardment plane over the second lap 
of his 2,000-kilometer flight at an average 
speed of 165.4 m. p. h., which Col. Follette 
Bradley, intelligence officer at Langley 
Field, said broke three world's records for 
the 1,000-kilometer course. General An- 

10 




OUTLANDS 

AND 



Strange facts about far 
places and perilous air 
trails. Send in yours. 



THE STORY TELLERS' CIRCLE 



173 



drews' elapsed time for the 1,000-kilometer 
course, flying with a 2,204.6 pound (2,000 
kilogram) load, was 3 hours, 45 minutes, 
13 seconds. The General, commander of 
G. H, Q. Air Force, headquarters at Lang- 
ley Field, flew for the record over a tri- 
angular course in which the points were 
Willoughby Spit in Hampton Roads, Floyd 
Bennett Field, New York, and Boiling 
Field, Washington. 

The previous marks, set by Colonel 
Lindbergh, Edwin Musick, and Boris 
Sergievsky in a Sikorsky S. 42 seaplane, 
were 157.3 m - P- h. over the prescribed 
distance, first, without payload, second, with 
payload of 500 kilograms, and third, with 
payload of 1,000 kilograms. 

Davey Crockett's Strange Dog 

THE lumberjacks have built up many 
legends about mythical creatures to be 
found in the woods and when they started 
telling strange tales of an evening, Davey 
Crockett's dog was often mentioned. This 
peculiar creature was actually supposed to 
have two of its legs, a front one and a 
hind one, sticking straight up in the air. 
This, the lumberjacks said, was due to an 
accident it once suffered. When running 
through the woods at its usual lightning 



speed, it struck a tree with such force that 
the animal was broken into two equal sec- 
tions with two legs on each. Fortunately 
the dog's owner, Davey Crockett himself, 
was close at hand and on seeing the beast's 
predicament, he instantly clapped the two 
halves together again. In his hurry he 
didn't notice until it was too late that he 
had one section upside down and ever since 
then two of the dog's legs have stuck up 
in the air. This odd state of affairs made 
the dog look rather queer but nevertheless 
it had its advantages. According to the 
lumbermen's legend, when the creature got 
tired of running on one pair of legs, it 
could actually flop over and start off afresh 
on the other two while the first pair were 
resting ! 

From Buenos Aires To Europe 

THE German Transatlantic air mail 
and passenger line, The Sindicato 
Condor Ltd., is advertising in South 
America a four-day service for mail and 
passengers from Buenos Aires to Europe. 
Passengers are carried from Buenos Aires 
to Rio by planes, and from Rio to Fried- 
richshafen by the Graf Zeppelin. Inter- 
mediate stops are made at Sevilla and 
Recife. 



NORTH POLE 

MUmIIh 



THE ENDS OF THE 
EARTH CLUB 



LI ERE is a free and easy meeting place for 2 J 
* the brotherhood of adventurers. To be one a.§ 
of us, all you have to do is register your name 
and address with the Secretary, Ends-of-the' 
Earth Club, % Short Stories, Garden City, JV. Y. 
Your handsome membership-identification 
card will be sent you at once. There are no 
dues — no obligations. 

Here's an opportunity you stamp col- Earth Club? I would like to join. I have 




str or 

MAGELLAN 
6A20m/l.s 



lectors had better not pass up. 

Dear Secretary: 

Is there any place for a Danish sailor 
to become a member of the Ends of the 
10 



been reading Short Stories Magazine for 
some time. 

I am very much interested in stamp col- 
lecting and I could supply large quantities 
of the current issues to members who 



174 



SHORT STORIES 



would care to write to me. I would like 
stamps from all over the world — South 
Sea Islands, India, Tasmania, Australia, 
South America, Africa, etc. 

Yours respectfully, 

H. Jensen 

M/S "Nordhavet," 

D/S "Norden" Amaliegade 49, 

Copenhagen K, 

Denmark 

Here's a chance for you fishermen 
who spend your winters in Florida to 
tell how you landed that big one. 

Dear Secretary: 

I have today received my membership 
card as a member of the Ends of the Earth 
Club. I work in an office and consequently 
do not see much of the country. I would 
like to communicate with other members 
in the different countries and see just how 
those in the other parts of the world live. 

I would appreciate it also veiy much if 
any members who have fished off the coast 
of Florida for sea bass and tarpon would 
communicate with me and let me know 
how the thing is done and how they fight. 



Here's hoping the Club keeps up the 
good work and with orchids to Short 
Stories, I remain 

Yours sincerely, 

Jack Langabeer 

54 Henry Street, 
Belleville, Ontario, 
Canada 

Here's an opportunity to gather some 
snaps of the Far East and also some 
interesting information as well. 

Dear Secretary: 

Here is a plea from a new member for 
some mail. 

I am a soldier serving in the Far East 
in the British Royal Artillery. I can write 
interesting letters about India, Egypt, 
Malaya and the Mediterranean ports. Will 
swap personal and interesting snaps. 

Hoping for a full mail bag, I am 
Sincerely, 

Richard Tester 

Gunner, 

4th Anti-Aircraft Battery, R. A., 
Changi, Singapore, 
Malaya, South Seas 



SAVE THESE LISTS t 

TIf ITH hundreds of letters from new members coming in every day, it is obviously 
rr impossible to print all of them in the columns of the magazine. The editors do the 
best they can, but naturally most readers buy Short Stories because of the fiction that it 
contains. Below are more names and addresses of Ends of the Earth Club members. Most 
of these members will be eager to hear from you, should you care to correspond with them, 
and will be glad to reply. Save these lists, if you are interested in writing to other mem- 
bers. Names and addresses will appear only once. 



W. Nelson Williamson, 4364 West Thompson Street, West 

Philadelnhia, Pennsylvania 
I. M. Willis, Way Way, Macksville, New South Wales, 

Australia 

Joseph St. R. Willis, Way Way, Macksville, New South 
Wales, Australia 

Albert Aldo, 145 North Main, Concord, New Hampshire 
Joseph Charles Alfano, 520 Wctmore Street, Utica, New 
York 

H. Andbcrg, Highland Road, West Concord, New Hamp- 
shire 

Murray Arnowitz, 1968 Cedar Avenue, Bronx, New York 
Marcel Le Maistre Auger, 1394 Sherbrooke Street, East, 

Montreal, Province of Quebec, Canada 
Ben Bailey, 1 16 Company, C. C. C, Millers Falls, Massa- 
chusetts 

Dave Barney, 341 North Normandie Place, Los Angeles, 
California 

John Bechtel, Riverside Park, Riverside, New Jersey 
Joe Belmal, 118% Grove Street, Bakersfield California 
Alex Belyea, Browns Flats, Kings County, New Bruns- 
wick, Canada 

Howard Best, C. C. C. Company 1835, Fort Sill, Okla- 
homa 



Wilbur Black, Reidsvilie, Georgia 

Willard Boe, 3728 South Lincoln Street, Rear, Chicago, 
Illinois 

Paul Boff, 1908 Carson Street, Pittsburgh, S. S. Pennsyl- 
vania 

Edward Bolson, 300 East 65 th Street, New York City, 
New York 

Bill V, Bonnell, 1700 Jopping Avenue, Bronx, New York 
Joseph Bonpietro, 113 East Clifton Avenue, Clifton, New 
Jersey 

Larry Bowen, General Delivery, Buffalo, New York 
E. S, Boyer, Chaminade College, Clayton, Missouri 
Edwin T. Brennan, 5 King Street, Dorchester, Massa- 
chusetts 

Cecil L, Britton, Weymouth North, Digby County, Nova 

Scotia 

Lewis Brown, 15 Spring Forest Avenue, Binghamton, New 
York 

Van Burnham, Jr., Ruleville, Mississippi 

Willie Burns, Weymouth North, Digby County, Nova 

Scotia 

Ellis Olmstead Butler, 144-41 Thirty-fifth Street, Flushing, 
Long Island 

D. F. Callaghan, 7 Maranea Cres, Coburg, N. 13, Mel- 
bourne, Australia 

10 



Emil Cederfelot, R. F. D. 1, Box 73, Brunswick, Maine 
Harold C. Carpenter, 274? North Adams, Indianapolis, 
Indiana 

Harley E. Carroll, Route I, Eckville, Alberta, Canada 
Edward Cevene, 216 South Main Street, c/o Western 

Union Rockford, Illinois 
Gerald Clark, 40 Union Street, Lewiston, Maine 
Bernard A. Cobb, 5 Arborth Street, Dorchester, Massa- 
chusetts 

Pat Cochrane, 40 Beaufort Street, Grahamstown, Cape 

Province, South Africa 
Vincent Cochrane, 136 Lake Street, Kent, Ohio 
J. D. Coleman, Jr., Box 2, Burrwood, Louisiana 
Leonard Copobianco, 2046 South 22nd Street, Philadelphia, 

Pennsylvania 

Armand J. Courtemouche, 94 River Street, Riverside,, 
Rhode Island 

Joseph W. Covert, 1023 East 13th Street, Brooklyn, New 
York 

Chester Crockett, 1319 East Leafland Street, Decatur, 
Illinois 

John P. Dalton, 515 West 170th Street, New York City, 
New York 

Stuart Datesman, 1094 Golden Gate Avenue, San Fran- 
cisco, California 
Woody De Leon, 170 Park Terrace, Hartford, Connecticut 
E. R. Delgarno, Box 1002, Harlowtown, Montana 
Russell Dembreske, 11512 — 80th Street, Edmonton, Alberta, 
Canada 

Louis Ralph de Pelletier, Box 575, Lecsburg, Florida 
Donovan Dickson, 52 Gramercy Park North, New York 

City, New York 
William J. Didelot, Company 1506, G C. C. Camp P-213, 

Columbia, California 
Bill Dory, 536 North Elm Street, Butler, Pennsylvania 
George C. Dougherty, 4207 Frost Street, Philadelphia, 

Pennsylvania 

W. E. Downham, 3011 West Street, Wilmington, Dela- 
ware 

Robert Drenan, 2453 North Kostner, Chicago, Illinois 

H. H. Dunbar, 1106 Company V, C. C. C, Jefferson Camp, 

North Whitefield, Maine 
C. H. Dunn, 716 Eighth Street North, St. Petersburg, 

Florida 

Bill Edmunds, 262 North Park Street, East Orange, New 
Jersey 

Henry J. Eggles, Jr., 1256 South Greylock Street, Phila- 
delphia, Pennsylvania 

George L. Elliott, Jr., 1301 West 42nd Street, Richmond, 
Virginia 

Walter M. Evans, Jr., USS Oglala, Pearl Harbor, Terri- 
tory of Hawaii 

Wesley Fladborg, 27 Caselli Avenue, San Francisco, Cali- 
fornia 

Ralph R. Forst, 513 West Madison Street, Durand, Wis- 
consin 

Ray French, East Windham, Greene County, New York 
Kenneth Fryer, Aircraft One F. M. F. VJ Squadron 6 M, 

Quantico, Virginia 
Larry L. Geyer, 4017 Evans Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri 
Willard Gilmour, Blakeburn, British Columbia, Canada 
James F. Graham, Box 241, Parsons, West Virginia 
Boris M. Grebnev, c/o P. S. K. Groznefti, 7/84 Prospect 

Revoluzii, Grozny City, Northern Caucasus, U. S. S. R. 
Charles Greenhood, 95-13 Northern Boulevard, Jackson 

Heights, L. I. 

Ralph Guarige, 304 Bank Way, Wilmerding, Pennsylvania 
Richard Guetzow, 5840 Roscoe Street, Chicago, Illinois 
Charles H. Guinon, 563 Lafayette Avenue, S. E., Grand 

Rapids, Michigan 
Howard Guthro, 2720 Brantford Avenue, New Westmin- 
ster, British Columbia, Canada 

Joe W. Halase, Fly Field, Yuma, Arizona 
oseph Hardy, 2517 Jackson Boulevard, Chicago, Illinois 
ames Henry Harrison, 9 Chesley Street, St. John, New 

Brunswick, Canada 
Richard Haskell, 490 Delaware Avenue, Buffalo, New York 
Frank Haughey, Box 244, Graterford, Pennsylvania 
Warren Hiltonsmith, 21 Catherine Street, Lynbrook, Long 
Island 

Tommy Hoffman, 2820 Overland Avenue, Baltimore, 
Maryland 

Joe Holter, 1419 Bragg Street, Little Rock, Arkansas 
Norman N. Hoover, Box 101, Wolf dale, Washington 

County, Pennsylvania 
Joseph Howorth, 16766 Murray Hill Avenue, Detroit, 

Michigan 

Leslie Howorth, 16766 Murray Hill Avenue, Detroit, 
Michigan 

Rex Howorth, 16766 Murray Hill Avenue, Detroit, Michi- 
gan 

Robert C. Iveson, Buckingham Street, Oakville, Connecticut 
H. Jensen, M/S Nordhavet, D/S Norden Amaliegade 49, 

Copenhagen K, Denmark 
Morton A. Jensen, 2537 North Chadwick Street, Phila- 
delphia, Pennsylvania 



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DEAFNESS IS MISERY 

Many people with defective hearing and 
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American School, Dept. H-839, Drexel at Wth, Chicago 



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THE 



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'tub MAR" ,AG T 

IGUfcS* s/ark drama 
^h. «ucifixioa of 
°i - lives, through 
which uns '** 6?W e S 

1 taking drama! 

SHE "WORKED" FOR 
HER EMPLOYER'S SON! I 

HELP WANTED— 
by Jackie The remth 
of sensational drama . . 
a young, °« au . tlf0 M 
secretary caught in the 
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son. A tremendous sue- 1 
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i| of aclamorofMid-Vic- 
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THE STORY OF A 

LUSTFUL WOMAN I 

REPLENISHING 
JESSICA— by Maxwell 
Bodenheim. A young 
woman's battle between 
flesh and the spirit. Sea 
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Charging it with being 
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THE"tOVi"Of AN 
' INDIAN GUIDE I 

PLAYTHINGS OF 

fire of an overpowering 
fovei n a u smashings t ory. 

The rich '° ue '^T& 

and the f»S%° d J?ho 
Vnnds guide wtio 
^Jvefsolhistlcation 

emotional novel of love 
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S5SS» 



SHE REVELEO 
W DECEIT I 

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IETEERS— by John 
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honeycombed with in- 
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